The secret of male attractiveness
Everyone knows the allegedly true story – recounted by the man himself on a TV chat show, if my memory serves – of the time that a middle-aged male hotel employee brought some element of room service up to footballer George Best’s room and, surveying the evidence of what had plainly been an epic night of fun (including several empty bottles of champagne, the newly-crowned Miss World’s discarded underwear on the floor and about £1,000’s worth of notes strewn on the bed), asked sorrowfully “Mr Best – where did it all go wrong?”
I can also recall the time Best appeared on the Michael Parkinson chat show and the latter asked whether he could tell if ever a young lady was only sleeping with him because he was famous.
The legendary swordsman replied smugly that he could always tell when that was the case because, as the young lady concerned was divesting herself of her clothes and slipping between the sheets, she would say “I hope you don’t think I’m doing this just because you’re George Best …”
It should come as no surprise to anyone – because we all, irrespective of gender, do it – when I confess that, from time to time over my adult life, I have reviewed my own looks, state of bodily fitness, hair style, the degree to which my current habitual choice of clothes is up to date (along with my personality traits, sense of humour, databank of chat-up lines and general demeanour) in the cause of not only presenting myself in the best form possible to the world but in particular, of course, to the female half of the population.
I’m probably skating on somewhat thin ice here when I reveal that I probably reached my peak in terms of potential attractiveness to the opposite sex in about 1972 when platformed boots, velvet bell-bottomed flairs, chamois-leathered, open-chested shirts with tassles hanging down under the arms and Jimi Hendrix hair-style perms were the norm (think the Who singer Roger Daltrey circa Woodstock and their 1969 Tommy double album).
My slight problem at the time was the eternal and instinctive human one that, when we attain our physical peak, inside we all think we remain at it unless and until (hopefully much later on) we receive concrete and incontrovertible evidence to the contrary.
I think it was Winston Churchill who once stated that without doubt the best years of life were between 18 and 24 and who am I to contradict the great man … well, save to comment that during that stage of my life (inasmuch as I can remember it) I am pretty sure that my success-rate with women was about the same meagre percentage as during the periods both before it and indeed ever since.
Perhaps a contributory factor to that may have the above-mentioned ‘1970s look’ isn’t such a good one when you’ve reached forty and are not only married with kids but balding, greying and the best part of three stones heavier than you were two decade earlier.
Be all that as it may, I managed to draw some comfort from a report by Kashmira Gander on recent research conducted in America showing that a large proportion of adults are primarily attracted to intelligence – see here, on the website of – THE INDEPENDENT
After forty years of fretting over my appearance and generally failing in my unequal quest to make myself attractive to the fairer sex, I now find it strangely reassuring to discover that I needn’t have bothered with the supposed ‘fashion statement’ clothing purchases, the nose-hair removal creams, the corsets, the sideboards and Fu Manchu handle-bar moustaches, the hairpieces and indeed the Grecian 2000 concoctions that I habitually plastered all over my head.
Instead I should have just been myself and let my enormous intelligence shine through in an understated, and yet compelling to my social companions, manner.
Although it has been approximately fifteen years since I last attended a dinner party I shall now be fully revved up and prepared to unleash my insightful opinions when – and if – I should ever receive another invitation to one.
