Dear newspaper editors...

MEN get to look at Page Three. They get a variety of ladies pictured in bikinis and included in newspapers for the very good reason that lots of people will buy a copy in order to look at them.

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.

Just say no, kids.

OVER the years Robbie Williams has both courted and criticised the Press, like a toxic ex who won't go away.

He made ambiguous statements in interviews about his sexuality in order to sell records, and then sued newspapers when they openly wondered if he was gay.

He'll sit and talk about his personal life, his mum, and his wife to the point you wish he'd just shut up, yet two years ago he lodged a series of claims with the Press Complaints Commission moaning newspapers had used a picture of his house.

It apparently intruded on his privacy to report that he had purchased a building, the records of which are publicly available at the Land Registry along with the date and value of the transaction. Naughty us, how dare we.

And now, at the start of a comeback tour so popular he doesn't need to do any interviews, he's revealed he injects himself twice a week with the sex hormone testosterone because he "has the libido of a 100-year-old man".

Yes, Robbie, and you've also got the brain of a duck. If a newspaper had got hold of your medical notes and reported exactly the same thing when you didn't have anything to promote you'd send your lawyers to tear them apart. So what are you going to do next week if someone does exactly that?

Hearing Robbie's winky gave up on life après Geri Halliwell doesn't add much to the sum of human understanding, and I can't see any point beyond stupidity for telling us it at all - although I was amused to learn the injections may give him moobs.

If I didn't know better I'd say his brain and body had been raddled by decades of drug abuse.

Quack, quack, quack.