If I turn on the TV to find one more adaptation of a Jane Austen novel I will scream and scream until I'm sick. For the life of me, I cannot fathom what people see in these lavish, yet utterly tedious dramas. To me they are the nearest thing to watching paint dry.

I recently made the mistake of attempting to watch Mansfield Park - partly because, as usual, there was nothing else on but the 1,000 Greatest TV Blunders and The World's Most Scary Police Chases, and partly because it was set at Newby Hall, where my family are frequent visitors.

Within 10 minutes I was crying out for something else. Anything else, even TV Blunders.

I first came across Jane Austen as a sixth former at school, where I was unfortunate enough to have Emma as a set book for A-level English literature. An avid reader, it stopped me in my tracks. It was the first time I had read a novel that didn't appear to be about anything.

"That's the whole point," I remember my teacher telling us all (I wasn't the only Austen hater). "It's just how life was for them, the day-to-day trivialities."

Well, to my mind day-to-day trivialities do not a good novel make. I firmly believe that were I to put pen to paper and write down all the conversations I have with my friends about men (because, let's face it, that's all Austen's lot do when they're not walking in beautifully manicured gardens, sewing or dressing for a ball) I would not have a stream of publishers beating a path to my door.

The furore surrounding the TV version of Pride and Prejudice (I tried to read the book but could not stop my thoughts drifting to more interesting topics such as whether I'd hung out the washing) was such that I armed myself with 10 bottles of gin and attempted to sit through it.

In no time I was having to resist the temptation to pull out my own teeth through boredom.

Watching anything by Jane Austen makes me crave car chases, shoot-outs and explosions. It makes me want to drive to Blockbuster, rent a dozen Arnold Schwarzenegger movies and watch them back-to-back.

And I can't understand all the fuss over Austen's male characters. Newspapers and magazines seem to never tire of asking: Why is Mr Darcy so handsome? What do women see in Mr Darcy? Is your man a Mr Darcy or a Mr Wickham?

Personally I wouldn't go within a mile of Mr Darcy or Mr Wickham. Or any of Austen's heroes. The latest theory is that Mr Darcy was strong but silent not because he wanted to appear aloof, but because he was autistic.

I firmly believe that there are millions out there, who given the choice of Arnie or Austen, would kick Mr Darcy into touch.