WHAT is it with men and lap dancing? I asked the Boyfriend this very question, while reading about a club in Wilmslow which opens on July 16.

Residents are furious, with one threatening to sell his house, while a councillor claimed it would be catering for dirty old men - "I hope it goes bust," he commented with no hint of a snigger.

Without lifting his head from the Sunday soccer pages, the Boyfriend muttered, "It's about titillation".

"Wouldn't it be cheaper to get a copy of Playboy?", I asked. "Different kind of titillation," came the reply.

Then he put down his paper and regaled me with stories of drunken work dos which had ended up in such establishments.

On a wet, Tuesday night in Doncaster he was ordered to sit on a Draylon-covered bench with his hands at either side of his body to avoid the temptation to touch.

The big, brassy blonde dancer, called Tiffany, with a reet broad accent, said "Ay up love, move yer 'ands in a bit I'm goin' to be standin on there."

Did he feel the urge to reach up and cop a feel? Not a bit of it, his only animal instinct was telling him to get up and run as fast as he could... or, at least, that's what he told me.

In another club, one even refused to dance for him. "Maybe she fancied you and didn't want to be driven wild with uncontrollable lust," I said, obviously joking.

"Hmmm, you might have a point there," came the deadly serious behind-the-newspaper voice.

But seriously, I really don't get the lap-dancing appeal. What's the point of paying for something that you can't take home, or at least have a bit of a play with?

Or do men delude themselves that these women actually find them attractive, when really the only source of appeal is the size of their wallet.

I've even experienced a spot of lap dancing myself. I was invited to report on a male version in Stockport some years back.

It promised to be a bit of a let-down as the boys, variously dressed as the Village People, seemed to scare the sober women to death.

A few bottles of WKD later, however, those poor lads were fearing for their lives. The no-touch policy went out of the window, there were thongs pinging in every direction and those grown men were clawing at the exit door to be let out. It was pure carnage.

Of course, for the sake of authenticity, I had to have a dance myself.

He was a perfectly honed, mixed race boy in a silver thong. As he straddled me to Tom Jones' Sex Bomb, don't ask me why, but my mind wandered to the 5lb bag of spuds I'd forgotten to put in my shopping trolley that day.

Erotic it certainly wasn't, hysterically funny, it most certainly was.

Apart from the fact that I was old enough to be his mum, it made me cackle at the absurdity. And the thought of having to paying for it was absolutely ludicrous.

So the point I'm trying to make is that I don't understand why men throw away their money at such places.

But I also believe it's harmless. It keeps people in legal employment and makes use of empty buildings. It also brings revenue to the local council. And before the Wilmslow lot start to crow - "Well you wouldn't want it on your doorstep" - let me say, it really wouldn't bother me.

However, having experienced what I experienced, if my teenage son came to me and said I can earn more money lap-dancing than chef-ing, I'd have to have a serious word.

He'd be safer joining the SAS.