Sharon tries to tone down, but like a screaming queen trying to pass for straight, she can't

I hold aloft the scrap of the true knickers (not the ones she removed and handed to Billy Baldwin in Sliver, but the ones she didn't wear in Basic Instinct) and the coven chants the chant: "Sharon Stone is our role model. Sharon Stone is our destiny." Shaven heads are bowed, 13 frenzied male voices take the vow: "We will dedicate our worthless existences to being the best Sharon Stones we can ... barring summer breaks, and the occasional lie-in on Sunday mornings." "Say it loud! Say it proud!" I shout, narrowing my eyes and pursing glossy scarlet lips the way Sharon does at the very thought of having to perform the horizontal mambo with Michael Douglas. Hear our song: "I Am Sharon Stone. I Am Sharon Stone. I Am Sharon Stone." Respectful silence falls. "Insert the tape of ... Diabolique!" I command. We fall to our knees - practice makes perfect! - brush flick- ends into our blonde wigs and prostrate ourselves before this remade, but terribly, terribly, helpful primer on how to off the sexist pig in your life - Sharon's career theme. We laugh. We cry. We almost call our therapists. Almost.

In your face: she may be playing the biggest tramp since Chaplin, but Sharon's right to dirty sex when she wants it, how she wants it, with who she wants it - lock up your sons and daughters - makes Sharon any sane sissy's alter-ego of choice. Sharon is our cheerleader, Sharon is the Sub-Text, The Truth and the Way Ahead: "You finally said f*** off. Good for you. F*** him. F*** them." Sharon is a sex wars guerrilla fighter, and frankly, my dear, she just doesn't give a damn, as `Diabolique' bears loving testimony to. Oh, ladies and germs, the strange, and possibly illegal joy of watching Sharon flaunting two bursts of collagen where her lips should be! Dear God, the profound feeling of ecstasy when rifling through her extensive, and stunningly inappropriate, wardrobe! We swoon, honey, swoon, as Sharon teaches a class of 10-year-olds whilst modelling a body- hugging little black number you'd think twice about turning up to a fetish party in. Sharon obviously values form over function, and, boy, do we identify. "It's a Donna Karan," I moan and everyone sighs deep, fulfilled sighs, understandably envious of Sharon's panache, personal trainer and almost natural tawny highlights.

Later Sharon tries to tone down, but like a screaming queen trying to pass for straight, she can't. Even her business suits are slutty; mere linen cannot contain her true nature. Sharon is beyond pretending - that's the lesson. So, mercifully soon, she's undulating in tight red toreador pants and fluffy zebra skin print top, possibly the first in the world to plunge to the ankles. Which is what the well-dressed woman is wearing to commit murder these days, not that misogynistic sonofabitch Chazz Palminteri will be around long enough to take fashion tips, for he's been slapping Sharon about - didn't he see The Specialist? The Quick and the Dead? - and forcing mousy wife Isabelle Adjani to eat reheated school dinners, style her hair in an unflattering shag, and have tastefully nude heart attacks in their bathroom.

Sharon and Isabelle. It's insane. It's an apotheosis. As I sermonise: "Poor, put-upon Isabelle is clearly the Closeted Self with absolutely no accessorising skills what-so-ever, while Sharon is the Out Self, whose task it is to liberate Isabelle, and, indeed, us all." Holy Writ, only some idiot, probably one of those ice-picky picky picky homosexuals who whinged when Sharon played a bisexual psycho-killer, whispers, "He's projecting", obliging me to scream, "Heretic! Stone him! Sharon-Stone the traitor!" And we do - well, it is sustained cardio-vascular activity - and I have to calm the brethren by deploying our favourite mantra: "Sharon says `I'm a gay man trapped in a woman's body/Sharon says `I'm a gay man trapped in a woman's body'/Sharon says `I'm a gay man trapped in a woman's body...'"

And Sharon is, sort of. In the continuing absence of heroes who are allowed to both beat the villain and bite the pillow, Sharon funnels the rage of suppressed souls who need periodic purging: see her shoot, stab and drown any overweening heterosexual male who questions her rights - or dress sense. Sharon has been acting out on our behalf since Total Recall, from the glorious moment we found her - and she found herself - practising her kick-boxing against the side of Schwarzenegger's skull, the great, big, fetid slab of condemned bratwurst. Sharon takes her punishment, but she also takes our revenge, and when not pulling patriarchy down a corpse or two, is always willing to hold out a sassy helping hand.

And as if on cue, Isabelle recovers from a theatrical collapse, tries on one of her two expressions (Comatose, and Merde!-Daniel-Has-Dumped- Me) and intones, "I'm alive". To which Sharon retorts, "No, you're dead, this is heaven and I'm the Virgin Mary." Tough love. Sharon knows a near- death experience is no excuse for not looking your best before a hostile world.

It's all too much for one follower. Consumed with the spirit of the goddess, he suddenly leaps to his slingbacks, and dances the way Sharon danced in the notorious Basic Instinct disco sequence, rolling his shoulders, swivelling his hips and tossing back his lustrous mane in insolent unison. He begins to babble. No, no, wait, it's not nonsense! He's speaking in tongues! We fall back and gasp in awe as the Words we have been praying for pour forth: "I Am Sharon Stone! And Sharon Stone Is Me! I Am Sharon Stone! And Sharon Stone is Me! I Am Sharon Stone..."