I've recently been developing a theory questioning what useful purpose men serve. Opening doors? They're automatic. Reaching things off the top shelf? Someone invented a stepladder. Evicting spiders? Get on of those grabby things on a stick.
It finally came down to opening jamjars, but even then the application of the back of a stout knife does the trick (as long as the contents of said jar are to be consumed in a day or two, as by then the seal of the lid is well and truly bu99ered; therefore not recommended for things such as eye-watering pickled onions).
I'm kidding. We need someone to leave the seat up so we can put it down again.
My friend Clare, at school, used to muse about replacing men with spermbanks, but then that unfortunately would, she noted, leave us with Lawnmower Spermbank and The Spermbank from U.N.C.L.E..
Last night I had a flash of inspiration. We need men to write Top Gear. Which self-respecting practical common-sensical woman could ever think up so many ways to destroy a car? Viz - watch three monkeys attempt a challenge to doctor three clapped-out motors into amphibious vehicles, drive 20 miles (the sailing car broke its mast on a tree, the VW camper van / narrow boat overheated because all the air intakes were welded shut), attempt to traverse 3 miles of lake without just sinking at the end of the slipway, or capsizing from over-revving the outboard in a typical macho manner, and drive out again. One car managed to get its front wheels there. All the monkeys got wet. Brilliant.
Therefore, what we need men for: ENTERTAINMENT VALUE