Is it just ME?

Or are barbecues a macho faff?

HA! FINALLY I am vindicated. I am not the only one who finds barbecues toxic.

According to a study by Manchester University, family barbies release as much greenhouse gas as a 90-mile car journey.

What would you rather have: a day trip to the country, or a burnt sausage? I rest my case.

Admittedly, the impact has as much to do with what you are cooking — I mean incinerating — as the method: it’s the beefburger and its environmental footprint the scientists have the biggest beef about.

But none of this takes into account the two major causes of fear and loathing when cooking outside. First, the ginormous faff; and second, men with tongs.

Supposedly, barbecuing is something at which you naturally excel if you have no ovaries.

It’s to do with the days when chaps went out with a spear. It brings out the beast in them.

It matters not that they’ve only been hunting and gathering at Waitrose. I mean, it’s not like women eschew washing machines and have merry socials down by the river beating our smalls on rocks.

Plus, let us not forget that barbecues are hugely antisocial — they stink out your neighbours’ gardens.

All that for an iffy chicken leg.

I’ve run out of subterfuge when it comes to cooking food that carries a risk of food poisoning. There’s only so much ‘Ooh, I’ll just keep this warm till the rest of the burgers are done’ I can manage, while I run inside and zap it in the microwave.

I just don’t get this desire for fire that grips everyone the minute it’s already too warm to be outside.

What you really want is a jug of Pimm’s and some strawberries (no cream — that’s got an environmental footprint too, damn it), rather than a man you once loved waving a big fork around and trying to poison you.

The man you once loved is now waving a big fork around and trying to poison you