Years ago, when our house was always full of small children, I staggered downstairs with a couple of fellow mothers after a chaotic communal bath-time and found the visiting Dads pouring well-earned drinks. We reported that, just before we battened down the hatches, all the three and four-year-old boys had been snapping at their pyjama elastic and comparing the size of their willies. The mothers all laughed. So did the fathers, for a brief moment, but then, in chorus, they ask™ed: ‘Um . . . and whose was the . . .?’ Civilized, cultured, happily married men, not a porn-hound or a libertine among them, but they couldn’t help it. Willy-worship, willy-pride, is hard-wired deep in the male brain. However much they deny it, men do seem to care. Actors Jonny Lee Miller (left) and Benedict Cumberbatch (right) were subject to much speculation and discussion after their stark-naked performances as Frankenstein a few years ago . Why else would King’s College London have bothered to trot around 15,000 men with a tape measure (one hopes not the hard, cold, sharp steel sort) and proudly report that the average length, unstimulated, is 3.6 in and 5.16 in erect. I do admire the chaps’ willingness to collaborate in that measurement in the presence of a researcher with a white coat and a ruler. Brrr. But the very fact that 15,000 men were happy to go through this bizarre academic exercise shows that they mind about their little friends. And that they all secretly, privately hoped that their willy would be bigger than average. The academics explain that it’s all about ‘using the graphs to examine the discrepancy between what a man believes to be their position on the graph and their actual position’, and that it will be very helpful to worried guys with body dysmorphic disorder, and to those prone to ordering the wrong size of prophylactic online. So, don’t tell me men don’t care. Further evidence was provided when some of us managed to see both versions of the astonishing Frankenstein play at the National Theatre a few years ago, in which on alternate nights the role of the Creature, stark-naked during a long opening scene, was taken by Benedict Cumberbatch and Jonny Lee Miller. Conversations between the male viewers who saw both were predictable, centring on who won that particular contest, and including the immortal line in a theatre-bar argument. ‘Ah yes, I see what you mean, but is it a show-er or a grower?’ We women edged away, to continue our serious analysis of which of the buff actors made the most alluring and convincing monster and which was best at being Dr Frankenstein. Libby says she blames author, Jilly Cooper (pictured), for giving men the impression that women are worried about size . Though to be fair, some of the girls were admiring the surrounding abs, pecs, and glutes. We do like a man who looks healthy. It’s a primitive need in the female to bond with a man who is going to be able to take the bins out unaided. But honestly, hand on heart, I suspect that very few of us during early courtship — or afterwards, or even after the golden wedding — are particularly worried about whether we are getting the full 3.6in average. The idea that we are waiting with a ruler and a scornful frown for the kecks to come off is miles from reality. I blame author Jilly Cooper for giving men that impression, with all her crazed descriptions of things rearing up like the Tower of Pisa, or space shuttles, or — my least favourite — a ‘joyous otter’. I suppose the trouble is that writing sex scenes you have few choices. You can resort to heavy innuendo, or do some Barbara Cartland stuff about being carried away to heaven on wings of bliss. Or you can throw in the towel and pretend the female eye will only be delighted by the spectacle of something that would fit neatly into the London or Manhattan skyline, somewhere between Centrepoint and the Gherkin. Though ideally, of course, not the Shard. The porn industry is obsessed with size, but anyone with half a brain and heart knows porn has little to do with the reality of lovemaking. Most of us have never cared about size. We don’t carry on like the fearsome coven on TV’s Sex And The City, shriekingly comparing notes in the back of taxis or skinny-muffin cafes. It is worth noting, without comment, that much of the genius behind those series and films came from — ahem — men. Gay men, in many cases. Out here in the real world, that is not the way women carry on. The only ones I’ve ever known talk about male size were sad, angry girls, unhappy in themselves about their failure to bond happily with any of the possessors of the said tackle. Libby is keen to point out that most women don't carry on like the women in Sex And The City (pictured), comparing detailed notes on the men they know . What we like is much harder to measure. I know a lot of women, and have been one for ages, and it’s simpler than you think. We like hugs, we like tenderness, we like men who seem (often bafflingly) to be delighted and aroused by the very sight of us, even without make-up and a heavy cold. We really like to be laughed into bed and treated with affectionate consideration once we’re there. We like men who think our enjoyment is at least half the point of the exercise, if not a bit more. We approve of chaps, of any dimension, who work out how to make the main event fun all round. We like men who chat and don’t mind being rolled over when they snore or hauled around when they have hogged the duvet. We like faithfulness and kindness, and a man who loves to cuddle the baby even when it’s leaking a bit. And we really like it when they grow out of caring about the 3.6in, or expecting it to be worshipped.
It's the hot topic of the moment thanks to recent scientific research . King's College London's survey revealed the average length of a penis . Here, Libby Purves, offers the ladies' opinion on the matter .