They don't try to hide or disguise this cuntitude either. They flaunt it (like belching, ball-scratching peaCOCKS). Communicating one's cuntness has never been easier. Pop into a local Topman/River Island. Pick up a "You Look Like I Need Another Drink" T-shirt. Boom. Job done. Instant cunt.

That's not your only option of course. For the odious prick about town the choices are (these days) many and varied. There is, for example, this chucklesome classic.

Or this slice of retro-gaming misogyny…

Ha! Ha! Women! They're all obsessed with nagging and marriage and ruining our lives and spoiling our fun and stopping us riding all round us and stuff. Wot a load of bitches!

It wasn't always this bad. Somehow and somewhere, in the last 10 years or so, Irish Ladism went from being a multifarious, loose-knit, fairly harmless and amorphous thing (built around rugby and late night group pissing sessions at pub urinals) to a codified and singular entity. Its themes and tropes were made concrete – and they were terrible to behold.

How did this happen? I blame a 2-pronged attack. Prong 1? The baleful rise of ladz magz (a trend that continues to find new nadirs – with Zoo [et al] making granddaddy Loaded look like À la recherche du temps perdu). Prong 2? The UK High St store invasion – on which a vigorous and fully-formed lad culture piggy-backed.

The hilarious part is that said culture is impossible to satirise. You could fill Topman with "WANKER!!!" t-shirts and there'd be queues around the block. They know they're wankers. They're thrilled about it.

However, we can but try. I'll be down the Milk Market in Limerick on Saturday morning trying to flog my "I Hate Women and Myself and I'm Wearing this to Try and Fill a Gnawing Emptiness Inside. Help me! Help me, Please!" t-shirt. If I can cause even one young fella to break down crying (hugging his knees and begging the universe to forgive him) it'll be a morning well spent.

#manclub