Some men feel so intimidated by women that they feel the need to create fantasy lives for themselves. Take Tony, the pigeon chest, who cornered me in a pub at the weekend. He stomped the length of the bar to square up to me. "Christ you're tall," he said, jutting his chin towards my collarbone. My height clearly annoyed him, and he proceeded to walk around me as if inspecting my physique for inclusion in a Robert L Ripley-style showcase called "Freaks of Nature".

"Christ you're tall!" he hissed again. Quickly realising that his behaviour was failing either to demean or to intimidate me, he stood on tiptoes and whispered in my ear. "I'm in the army," he said. His strutting walk had told me that much. I was still unfazed, so he added: "I'm in the SAS, actually."

What a coincidence. Just the night before, a minicab driver had taken time out from his anti-foreigners rant to inform me that he, too, had served with the SAS. That the identities of "real" members of this regiment are kept secret helps such men perpetuate their fantasies.

Sadly for Tony in the pub, he was so drunk that he forgot he was with ten others from his unit. I couldn't resist asking the tiniest, bespectacled and least harmful-looking of his pals whether it was a good idea to reveal what regiment they were in, here, in the middle of a crowded West End pub.

"Why?" he chuckled. "Do you think the staff might force us to create a high-energy menu or whip up an impromptu pasta?" After a few moments of confusion, it became clear that the lively group (a really nice gang, despite warrior-boy) were "in the logistics corps" - that is, they were army chefs.

Men who need to pretend - like the little boys they are - that they have had exciting adventures in exotic locations have clearly never met a man who has lived such a life. In the early 1990s, a childhood pal of my partner's came to stay for a couple of weeks. He ended up living with us for almost two years.

Pete (not his real name) had recently returned from the Gulf and a tour of duty in Northern Ireland with the SAS. He was in a mess. He drank until he passed out every night, went to pubs in Kilburn wearing a T-shirt saying "Unite Ireland - Invade the South", and almost killed three kids who had tried to mug him for his Walkman.

Despite his frightening, unpredictable behaviour, I felt sorry for him. He had become institutionalised. Having joined the army at 17, he had never paid a bill, been to a cinema, owned a car or fallen in love - he was 29 years old. One night, he broke down after I pushed him, again and again, to face his problems and "get things out in the open".

When thinking, he touched the scarred left-hand side of his face. He had been left with only two-thirds of his teeth after being caught carrying out observations on an IRA group outside Belfast. "I killed a young Iraqi boy," he said. "It was close up. He was dying in agony, so I shot him." Many soldiers he'd seen fighting in the Gulf were around 15 years old. They were the enemy, though - he did his job.

I never heard Pete boast to anyone about his past life. When asked what he'd been doing for the previous 11 years, he'd laugh, roll his eyes madly, and sneer: "If I told you, I'd have to kill you."

It usually did the trick.

One evening, Pete became aggressive towards me. We were alone in the flat. I was terrified and told him to leave before my partner returned. A few months ago, I received a letter via a mutual friend. It said: "Sorry and thanks. I was in trouble. I'm now saving lives, not taking them. I'm an ambulance man. God bless. Pete."

What a shame George Bush is too much of an idiot to realise that being "at war" isn't a boast. It's a regret.

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