Paris and the haute couture shows have been my home all week, and I have to tell you that the French capital is awash with hot men.
They are everywhere. Go to hip restaurant Derriere and the maitre d’ is like a god, trust me.
Visit the vintage fashion shop in Pigalle called No Good Store and the manager Abdel . . . well, he looks like a movie star, only better.
French men dress so nicely, too: lots of V-neck cashmere. They are not afraid of wearing colour.
Compare them to their British counterparts who dress either in shiny suits they wear day in, day out without ever seeing the inside of a dry cleaner’s, or sportswear.
Whenever I go abroad – to Milan, New York or Madrid – I’m staggered at the sheer number of handsome men, while in London it seems that good-looking, sexy ones are as rare a sight as the snow leopard.
The Spanish have Nadal, we have Murray. The Pakistanis have Imran Khan, we have Gordon Brown. The French have Zinedine Zidane, we have Steven Gerrard, a man who probably thinks the height of sophistication is wine that comes in a box.
So, women of Britain, here is my moan: we have the ugliest, slobbiest men in the world.
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