Hang out in the hubbyhole

The news that Halifax building society estimates that seven million men have a "hubbyhole" — a men-only zone where chaps can escape from the relentless feminisation of modern life — and that another million have joined our number for the World Cup comes as little surprise to established aficionados of the man cave such as myself. I'm a den-lover of long standing, a member of Mancavesite.org and a vociferous acolyte for the primacy of sacred male space.

The only time I haven't had a man cave to retreat to was during the years when I lived on my own in London — my whole life was one big man cave then. But whenever I've been under the control of women — first a mother and three sisters, now a wife and one daughter — I've needed a hetero-escape hatch.

Ingenuity counts

Some say the man cave is not an option for the space-pressed city dweller but it is more about ingenuity than resources. My hubbyhole is called "the garret". It is an old room that I have occupied in the eaves of the grand country house lived in by my brother-in-law and his family half a mile up the road from our home. It started life as an office and that's still the official excuse for its existence.

But over the years it has taken on an increasingly female-unfriendly leisure function. It has a La-Z-Boy chair, a stereo and a flatscreen TV. I don't have parties there but I do host my all-male investment club once a month.

The man cave has a star-flecked following these days. Johnny Depp, Brad Pitt and George Clooney have them. But don't let that put you off. Roald Dahl worked in a shed and every adult male requires, some place, any place, to escape the tyranny of women and children.

Occasionally, my wife and kids venture up to the garret, bringing me biscuits as an excuse but they always look a bit out of place. They know they are trespassing.

Masculine touch

For the past four years, I've had to compete in the garret with my wife's family memorabilia, carving out a space for myself among reassuringly male artefacts such as old military uniforms and Boer War swords. But things have changed over the past few days. I've been redecorating the garret for that giant bloke-fest that is the World Cup. The room has been decluttered: the uniforms have been put up on hangers; the corrugated cardboard and suitcases have been consigned to the bin; I've replaced the dusty old rug with a fitted carpet; and I've painted the walls white. It looks good.

Too good, as I realised when my wife stopped by to inspect the progress. "It looks fantastic. Maybe we could get a sofa and watch a film up here one night?"

We? We? I love you, darling — but do stay out of my cave.