Ian McMillan: I'm slow on the drawl, not tall in the saddle

This man has sometimes got a patch over one eye and often wears a battered hat. Unlike me, he speaks slowly, and also unlike me he often rides a horse with the reins in his mouth and a pistol in each hand.

Imagine me doing that on the streets of Darfield: there'd be murmurings in Mad Geoff the barber's and the paper shop and people would come out of the baker's to stand and stare and point and take photographs.

The object of my wife's yearnings has actually got a girly name and walks with a slightly stiff, bow-legged gait as though he's spent too long riding the range, which in fact he has.

I haven't examined his teeth but I bet they're jagged from biting large amounts of dust when he falls from the aforementioned horse. I pride myself on my decorum when I go into a pub or a caf; I sit in the corner sipping a lemonade and reading an improving book.

The big-hatted bloke I'm talking about goes straight to the bar, orders a whisky, drinks it in one then starts a fight that involves flying furniture and loud music.

As you'll have guessed, I'm talking about John Wayne, real name Marion Morrison; the archetypal Quiet Man, the Searcher, the guy who was tall in the saddle and quick on the draw. Flippin' John Wayne!

The other day I happened to mention to my wife that they were remaking True Grit, one of her favourite John Wayne films. Her expression was a cocktail of disgust, contempt and horror.

It was as though I had suggested they were marketing a new version of the Yorkshire Pudding that included quince jam and jugged hare. Her expression said 'You can't alter perfection', as she settled down to the second half of the John Wayne Day on an obscure satellite channel.

I've been followed around by big John Wayne all my life. My parents were huge fans and my dad, who wasn't usually all that fond of the American way of doing things, made an exception in John Wayne's case.

He would watch the television sitting right on the edge of the settee and rigid with excitement as Wayne, in a hat as big as an industrial frying pan, dispatched baddies who had smaller black hats and moustaches like 1970s footballers.

He would look across at me and say, with a knowing wink, "tough guy!" and I would smile feebly and turn back to my Beano. My dad had been in the Navy and had seen real action in the Second World War and he was a proper tough guy so why did he enjoy this cartoonish character so much? Old JW may as well have been cavorting about in the Beano with Dennis The Menace as far as I was concerned.

The great American writer Joan Didion made a stab at understanding the man and the image of the man in her essay John Wayne: A Love Song.

She writes of the moral and intellectual simplicity that he embodied, and deduces that these are important virtues in uncertain times. "In John Wayne's world, John Wayne was supposed to give the orders. 'Let's ride' he said, and 'Saddle up'. 'Forward ho', and 'A man's gotta do what he's got to do'."

Yes, that's part of it, the certainty in a wobbly era. The cowboy certainly does have a great hold on the popular imagination and I enjoy a good Clint Eastwood film myself and regular readers will know that I'm a Bonanza fan, but John Wayne is a gunbelt too far for me. Anyway, as my grandson Thomas said the other day "Why are they called cowboys when they ride horses? Why aren't they called horseboys?" Ask your grandma.

Maybe I shouldn't dismiss him, though. My parents liked him. My brother is a fan. My wife knows the words of The Searchers off by heart.

If you can't beat him, join him.

Maybe I should pretend I used to have a woman's name that I altered to the more rugged Ian McMillan. I could tell my wife that my real name is Doris but I changed it years ago before we met to avoid confusion with a lady called Doris who sat in the next pew at church. I could buy an eyepatch and a cowboy hat.

Next time I go to a caf I'll surprise my wife by ordering a whisky and chucking some stools about randomly. I might even, although this could be a step and a swishing tail too far, learn to ride a horse. I can't really see any of that working, can you?

I'll start small, I reckon. I'll start drawling. I'll speak more slowly. I'll emphasise my words. Ian McMillan: slow on the drawl. Saddle up! That'll impress her…