We don’t all take pregnancy lightly (pay attention Liz Jones of the Daily Mail)

As a female columnist, I feel I'm missing a trick by not using this page as a confessional for all the terrible, controversial and downright revolting things I've done during my time on the planet.

Indeed, at this very moment I'm kicking myself for never having tried to siphon off the contents of a used condom in order to secretly impregnate myself like the Daily Mail's Liz Jones did.

That would have been column gold.

I could have written about sneaking off to the bathroom with a teaspoon, a turkey baster and a determined glint in my eye and then it could have been me on This Morning last week and not Liz.

If only I'd had the forethought to deceive a partner who had no interest in being the father of my child and then cunningly used the anecdote to tar all women of a certain age with the same tawdry brush.

It'd have been me telling millions of people watching ITV1 that my column about crazed mining for testicular emissions in cold condoms was actually written for men and was designed to act as a nutter klaxon pointing out the depths to which baby-hungry women will plunge.

These could have been my wonderful words in print: 'If there are any men out there contemplating getting close to a woman in her late 30s or early 40s, I suggest you tread very carefully.

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'She might be the woman for you, she might be totally honest if she says she doesn't want to rush into motherhood. But she might also be a duplicitous creature.

'So let me offer a warning to men wishing to avoid any chance of unwanted fatherhood: if a woman disappears to the loo immediately after sex, I suggest you find out exactly what she is up to.'

That last line is my favourite of all.

Nothing says 'post coital romance' like insisting on following your partner into the toilet to make sure they're not contemplating a spot of covert IVF.

The sad truth is that I don't think I've ever done anything terrible, controversial or downright revolting enough to cause a public outcry on the scale of Liz Jones' man-milk theft.

I could make something up, but she's set the bar pretty high/low.

When you write a column, you tread a thin line between revealing too much and revealing too little.

I think the closest I've ever come to keeping up with the Jones was when I mentioned the fact that I once had a relationship with a man who had a slightly feminine backside (let's hope he isn't reading this time – that was a conversation I desperately didn't want to have and taught me that the art of backing down after something has been in print is somewhat difficult to pull off).

I have to admit that I am hugely drawn to Jones' writing and her never-ending obsession with wringing out her insecurities in print and leaving no stone unturned in her bid to document every last detail about her life, from smelly husbands to smear tests, ugly neighbours to losing her virginity in her 30s.

If she feels the need to tell us this stuff, I for one am willing to read it, boggle at it and promise everyone I know that I won't mention them in this column, or that if I do it will be in a wholly glowing light.

What I am not quite so keen on is ol' Liz dragging the rest of the sisterhood into the mire alongside her – the last thing we need to hand men is 'proof ' that women really are lipstick-smeared lunatics salivating over Mothercare catalogues while maintaining on the surface that we're 'not ready' for kids.

There are enough women-hating idiots clogging up the place without women joining their ranks to take a dig at their gender in a misplaced bid to excuse their own bad behaviour.

The vast majority of women don't take getting pregnant lightly (literally, in my case – by the time I gave birth, I was the size of Tesco at Sprowston) and realise that trapping a man into fatherhood isn't the best way to ensure a happy household.

What Liz Jones does is Liz Jones' business – and I can't even feel too sorry for the man she stole from: if her columns reflect what she's really like, he must have got a flavour of how barking mad she was after knowing her for around 30 seconds.

Just keep the rest of us out of it.

•This article was original published on November 14, 2011