How insulting. My girlfriend recently complained that I wasn't "man enough" because I couldn't figure out how to change a flat tyre during our Sunday drive in Sai Kung. There we were on a deserted stretch of road in a country park, the sun was setting, then suddenly - ppssssshhh.

I am not ashamed to confess that I abhor menial, sweaty work. I prefer the sophistication of city life, refined culture and a comfortable white-collar job to go with my slim-cut suit and corner office. It's called evolution.

Beer is for ruffians. People with taste drink pinot or Bordeaux - and only from the Old World if you have genuine class. Why would I want to be a caveman if I can have the gentlemanly elegance of waxed follicles and moisturised pores?

Anyway, while trying to replace the stupid tyre, I completely ruined my Mandarin Barber manicure. And my Tod's loafers are now scuffed beyond redemption. I admit I'm not into mechanical parts or automotive repair. Apparently, I also literally don't know jack. That's why I hire people to do these things - but my not-so-smartphone chose that moment to run out of battery.

I bought my German sedan because I liked the sleek contour of its lines and the comfy leather interior - I don't give a damn about the torque, acceleration or fuel-injected engine. Do I look like Jeremy Clarkson? As long as the air-con works and my maid keeps it buffed and clean, I'm fine with whatever transmission my grease-monkey mechanic suggests.

And just where in the "Modern Man" manual does it say we have to cling to old macho ideals like working with power tools and chopping down trees for firewood? The paradigm of masculinity was turned upside down when all the gay guys started taking over fitness centres and weight rooms.

In this day and age, if brawny professional American football and basketball players can be gay, certainly I - a flaming metrosexual who cried during Les Miz - should be accepted as a straight man who just isn't interested in ale and fried food.

Since the tyre-changing debacle, my girlfriend has been nudging me to upgrade my car to something more eye-catching and testosterone-based. Right! Nothing says I have a really small member like sitting in Gloucester Road traffic idling in first gear with an ostentatious two-seater.

So I told her, "Sweetheart, it's not practical in Hong Kong." Then I added: "Unless, with the car's low and awkward seats, you enjoy risqué flashes every time you get in and out of the car."

I'm sure all the Neanderthal mouth-breathers would like that. Come to think of it, given her penchant for selfies and duckfaces, she'd probably do it on purpose too. That's what I get for still preferring girls with junk in their trunk rather than software under the hood.