Women - why aren't you running the world yet? Frankly I'm disappointed in you. Men are still far too dominant for their own good, and consequently we've made a testosterone-sodden pig's ear of just about everything: politics, the economy, religion, the environment ... you name it, it's in a gigantic man-wrought mess. The world's been one big dick-swinging contest, and we've caught our collective glans in a nearby desk fan. By rights we should be squealing for your help, but we're not, because we're too damn stupid and too damn proud. We swagger convincingly, and that's about it. And swaggering's fine for scraping by in primitive times, but the world we've built is altogether more complex now. We've got stock exchanges and nuclear warheads. It's too easy to swagger your way into big trouble without even realising. Well, we've had our turn. It's time for the Rise of the Ladies.

We don't need a few women in conspicuous positions of power scattered here and there - we need a 10-year prohibition on all forms of male power. Seriously: a decade in which men don't get to control anything, from the remote control upwards. Imagine the consequences. For one thing, there would be an instant and massive reduction in armed conflict around the globe. Sure, nations would routinely bitch about each other in secret (and with a new, hair-curling viciousness), but there'd be fewer intercontinental punch-ups and a far smaller bodycount.

The economy should clearly be run by women. City boys are dicks, plain and simple. Look at them. Listen to them. Consider the carnage of the past 10 years. What the hell were these idiots thinking? Even now they're still at it. In any sane world they'd all be herded into a shed and blasted with hoses until they promised to stop. Everything they say, think, do, watch, read and fill up their iPods with is awful. Even their girlfriends are awful. Straight women, reading this: if your partner is a city boy, leave him. Leave him now. Dump him with a text message, right this very second. It'll hurt for about six days, then your life will improve beyond measure. Sod that little number-swapping dick who dares call himself a man. Lob him in the shed with the other squeaking fakes and train the cold jets on the bastards. Shut the door and let them shiver.

Men love machines, because machines remind them of themselves. As a result, men quickly became very very good at building machines and then driving them round rather too quickly, shouting "Toot toot! Look at me in my brilliant car!" This was cute for a while, but the novelty's worn off now that the planet's teetering on the brink of becoming an inhospitable cinder. Please, women, for all our sakes: just lock us in a room with some Lego or something. I'm sorry, but we're just too bloody stupid to save the planet. Looks like you'll have to clean up our mess once again. Mankind's depending on you.

"This is all very well, but none too realistic," thinks the female reader. "Men aren't just going to hand over the reins that easily. I know what men are like. They're self-righteous and stubborn - just like women, but worse."

Oh, you. Pretty, silly you. We've got you brainwashed. See, that's what our incessant, ruinous swaggering was all about: pretending to be more complex and dangerous than we actually are. In truth your suspicions are correct: we're very, very simple. We're lazy and we like blowjobs. That's all there is to us. Literally: that's it. From Sir John Betjeman to Barack Obama, from Copernicus to Liam Gallagher. The core software we run on could fit in the memory of a digital watch circa 1985 without even scraping the sides.

And you know this, you women. You know this of course, but it's so dazzlingly obvious you actually doubt it's true. Most of my friends are women. I often find myself counselling them as they agonise for hours, trying to fathom what men are thinking, what men want. Yet no matter who they're talking about, or what the circumstance, from my perspective the answer always seems so glaringly basic it could be scratched on the back of a button. This one wants a shag. That one wants a biscuit. Every time: the butler did it.

The only mistake women make is crediting men with far more mystery than they're capable of. We're impulsive yet thuddingly predictable, and you'd better learn to love us for it because that's just about all we can muster. That's why we bollocksed the planet up. We didn't mean to. We're men, that's all.

And now, surely now, it's time for you to shunt us off the podium and take charge for a decade. If only as an experiment to see what happens. I for one welcome our titted overlords. Give us our toys and our daily bread and permit us to lie on the sofa for 10 whole years, like snoozy, spluttering pigs. We get to loll around contentedly, you get to save the world. Sound good? Do we have a deal? Well do we, you wonderful bitches?

• This week Charlie got halfway through McMafia by Misha Glenny: "A sobering look at globalised organised crime with an unfortunately gaudy cover that makes it look like a feature from Loaded circa 1998, which it absolutely isn't."