The brief, failed experiment with a Page Seven Fella went phut not because women don't like the same thing, but because a poncey model with a pair of socks in his smalls is of limited interest to those of us whose sexual urges start in our brains.
I've seen this picture in a few places now, and probably shouldn't reproduce it as the New Zealand Special Forces soldiers in it would rather remain anonymous for safety reasons. But they're already all over the internet and if they just shave no-one will recognise them again, so I'm going to.
This is the kind of picture lots of women would buy lots of newspapers to see more of. In their MILLIONS. It should illustrate articles on handbags, the menopause, the horoscope column, care home initiatives and the latest Coalition policy u-turn, never mind just the reports of how these guys helped retake the Intercontinental Hotel in Kabul from some suicide bombers.
This chap is as far from ponce as it's possible to get. He is the embodiment of what Bonnie Tyler was on about and the lyrics a thousand hen nights still blare out at the karaoke: he's a good man, looks like a streetwise Hercules, and not only is he fresh from the fight but the other bloke's blood is still on his knuckles.
I know that most males in Fleet Street are soft of belly and palm, and like women who appreciate them for their witticisms and ability to claim the cost of a meal out. But trust me when I tell you: this is what we women want.
If he turned up on my doorstep looking like this I'd be in a nurse's uniform quicker'n you could say "can I kiss it better?"
Bagsy, he's mine.