It amazes me how women have friends they just don't like...

It amazes me how women have friends they just don't like. Last summer a close friend of mine asked me to be her +1 at the wedding of her lifelong best friend who, she admits when pushed, she doesn't really enjoy spending time with and has let her down more times than she can count.

The Hampshire venue was one of those majestic stately piles, a neo-gothic book mark serving as a reminder of how gloriously wealthy and decadent the past was when fortunes equalled dresses in their vastness and even 'the help' had staff. Sadly time moved on and if the in-bred Lord hadn't blown his ancestors copper fortune on rent-boys, opium and the kind of parties that would leave even 'One Night in Paris' blushing, Harcourt's 1894 introduction of death duties and the 1st World War would ensure these grand houses fell out of private hands, becoming a country curiosity enabling the normal folk to play aristocrat for the day.

Thanks to it being pay day and to make a weekend of it we decided to stay the night expecting a good party and entertaining night fuelled by a complimentary bar. Once booked into the Windsor Suite, outfits tweaked and hair freshly fluffed, a short drive followed by three large G&T's we faced the village church with suitable gusto. Threats of eternal damnation, promises of faithfulness and donations for the roof made and purgatory was over. Hallelujah! An entertaining drive down country lanes avoiding pheasants, following a dated silver Golf crammed with pink-clad bridesmaids and we arrived back at the oak panelled pile. Polite conversation, escapes attempted, seating plan read and finally food was served whilst the harpist frantically plucked away.

Mumm was quickly replaced with sparkling wine and so once again Gordon's stepped in with a little assistance from tonic. As the evening began to fade a well watered bridezilla thundered towards us, mascara streaming, and through the tears announced that her wedding was 'an utter disaster,' '...a total and utter nightmare!' All in earshot of her father who was at least £35,000 worse off thanks to his charming princess and her apparently unfulfilled demands. Our retreat was quickly accomplished and we hurtled back to our Laura Ashley draped four poster to evaluate the day, my companion admitting that she couldn't stand her best friend. However, and this is the bit I'll never understand, she would still send her a quick text later in the week to organise post-honeymoon catch up drinks. This was quickly followed by 'she can't help being a spoilt cow.'

In contrast to this us boys only have mates who we actually like. Most of our conversation circles around things which come with LCDs/LEDs/STDs and legs, cars which go faster 0-60 than my attention span during a party political broadcast and how ugly Nick's new girlfriend is. We enjoy being with like-minded souls who won't cry over lunch or give you a look of utter disgust when you suggest 'just one more - for the road.'

Women however seem to have carefully selected and regularly audited groups of friends many of whom they don't really like but still meet up with for catch-up sessions noisily bursting with delight over iced tea from Long Island and gossiping about the latest 'facts' in low lit, high priced bars. They then go home wondering why they just blew a months pay on drinks with people they wouldn't save from a burning building.

I don't believe even they know why this is, I'm certainly not brave enough to ask, but the whole girl friendship thing has always puzzled me.

To be honest I've always had a bit of an issue with the concept of 'friends.' Don't get the wrong idea, there's no Tommy-no-mates story here, I have accumulated a respectfully sized group of them over the years and regard a number as close. If Facebook is to believed I have collected over 150 to date and, thanks to my rule of only accepting people who I have actually met in person, I know more than just their email address and IM tag.

Myspace, the breading ground of bands which will never quite make it, passed me by thanks to a real life and I successfully avoided 'people-you-hoped-you-would-never-see-again - now reunited' the thought of which filled me with dread. There are reasons I chose not to keep in touch with someone who remembers a 15 year old me with bleached orange hair and a regularly squeezed crop of pimples.

Thankfully I also never felt the desire, or had the need, to join an online dating site. A colleague, who had at the time over 12 profiles and a fiancee in Brazil, reliably informed me that these were for those looking for a no-strings shag rather than a deep, meaningful relationship. Those searching for that someone special to sit in front of roaring log fires with whilst sipping Chateau Neuf De Pap and gobbling a combination of milk tray and each others faces, the image the dating websites like to portray rather than the quick fix shagfest actually on offer, best look elsewhere.

Whilst the occasional urge for some no-strings release sourced via the lap-top and a monthly deduction discreetly appearing on my credit card statement sounds like fun I have always been of the opinion that god created clubs and bars to enable people to pull and that it was only natural to view a potential conquest in this habitat. The abundance of confidence in liquid form encapsulated in a one inch glass, two centimetres for those of you not of a metric disposition, also eases the process and improves the chances of a successful kill for both parties. There are exceptions to this rule which I am sure to cover another time but for now I'll stick to my conclusion that when dating 'real' is always better than 'virtual.'

However with the cyber-birth of the blue logo'd Facebook I was dragged into the fold by a select group of converts claiming I'm not actually real until my innermost thoughts are accessible through a click on that little blue icon. I therefore now have a Facebook 'presence' which, after initially being hesitant to trust, is now teeming with all that is Me. Memories via my daily updated gallery, hourly status and links to my 'significant other' profile telling anyone accepted that yes I have a boyfriend and yes I was very happily married for 6 years to a girl.

In the majority of cases this revelation has not shocked those invited or accepted into the blue icon guarded inner sanctum of my virtual Facebook world giving them a gentle introduction into how I tick. So I'm now straddling both worlds, virtual and real, thankfully finding a pleasant middle ground, blogging is yet another affirmation of my virtual online self balancing out the real.

As the train hurtles back to Euston, the relief that I've escaped after a week held captive in a soulless cement clad conference centre on the edge of a rainy, gray, overcoat shrouded Manchester. Soho and all it can offer beckons and I can't wait...