Some invites can't be refused. And given that ogling men is perfectly acceptable so long as you can say postmodernist feminist without drooling, I went to give the Men's Health cover models the once-over at the Trafalgar Hilton.

The boys on parade, all keen to become this year's symbol of perfect manhood, wore identical jeans and clingy white T-shirts. I heard myself saying: "I feel awful thinking about these young guys as bits of meat - but, oh dear God, look at that one!" It quickly became clear that most of the women, while appreciating the hours of training the models put in, just aren't that attracted to mini-Arnie types. A TV producer downed her champagne. She cast a harsh, agent's eye over the tanned and plucked young men, and then announced: "Gay dwarves, sweetie, do absolutely nothing for me."

I've often laughingly said that all it takes for men to become our slaves are breasts and booze. But biceps and Bolly turn media women into animals. Still, the producer had a point. All of the male models were smaller than expected - around five foot seven or eight. Hearing our comments, an editor on Men's Health felt she had to tell us that "health has no height restriction". Fine, fit men can be less than six foot, but do they all demand that their gym partners pluck their eyebrows before they can train together? Do men into outdoor sports all apply fake tan and shave their chests? Does waxing yourself from head to toe make you a better rugby player? One of the boys had eyebrows so over-plucked he wore a look of pained indignation identical to Lily Savage's.

The champagne was slipping down very easily by the time it came to the judging. "I'm not interested in the result," I sighed, lighting a cigarette. Then the compere said: "The contestants will now take off their shirts, please." Suddenly, a glass smashed and expensive shoes trampled on my toes. A couple of young soap actresses clambered on to leather sofas to get a better view. Narinda from Big Brother nearly knocked me over getting to the front. I, on the other hand, calmly stayed where I was. OK, so I may have stood on tiptoe and had a peek at the semi-naked models - but only out of the corner of my eye.

The winner was announced and there was a small amount of polite clapping. PR events centre around celebrities on the lookout for freebies. They are laid on for sponsors and journalists. They aren't (as you might imagine) very nice events for "stars in the making". The journos ignore whatever they're supposed to be watching and entertain each other with competitive anecdotes. "I went to Tuscany with X", "Well I had the villa next to Alastair Campbell", and so on. The conversation is coughed above a cloud of fag smoke, at a higher decibel level than an extra runway at Heathrow.

The men slipped their T-shirts back over their hairless, orange torsos, and there was a certain amount of awkward giggling from the ladies being helped off tables. At some point, the young model boys were allowed to mingle with (by this stage) dangerously drunk guests.

One of the less camp contestants - he might have been the winner for all I know - came over and started talking to me. He was very different from his primped, primed image. He had an average job, liked a drink and had entered the competition for a laugh, he said, "for the free holiday and travel, actually". He clearly spent too many hours a week making himself look what he thought to be perfect. But all the obsessive clean living and working out had turned him and the others into freaks. Standing inches away from the modern world's image of male perfection was as exciting as standing next to a Kylie Minogue doll. Like Kylie herself, hulky shaved men are a distortion of reality.