Sexy Hot Beauty

She speaks when she’s spoken to, smells lovely and has a big nose – six writers wax lyrical on their picture of perfection

GILES COREN

Once upon a time, a man on the hunt for a wife would set great store by a woman who could cook. But things have changed. And to be honest, I’ll settle for a woman who can eat. A woman who doesn’t poke her food around the plate and hide things under her knife and claim to have a thousand intolerances and allergies. A woman who isn’t “off carbs”, “not drinking this year”, “toying with the macrobiotic thing” or made to “feel funny” by red wine. I don’t want to sound narrow-minded. If I truly love her, then I guess we could always work the food thing through. As long as she isn’t always “tired”. Men are either awake or asleep, but women are always “exhausted”. What the hell is that? If you’re tired, woman, go to bed.

Also, I want a woman who is prepared to admit that what she wants from a man is a big c*** and a lot of money. I am fed up with women always claiming that what they find most sexy is a sense of humour. Because it isn’t true. I know this because I am hilarious. Way more funny than most of the slack-arsed, car-obsessed, office wonk baldies you’ll meet in a wine bar on a Friday night, and yet I practically never get laid. If it were true that women are turned on by a man who makes them laugh, Woody Allen wouldn’t have had to marry his own daughter.

As for a woman with a sense of humour, that’s fine, as long as it simply means that she will laugh at my jokes. Most women only laugh at their own jokes. Shut up. If you say something funny, I’ll let you know. And don’t give me “career”. Only women have “careers”. Men have jobs, to get money, and if we could stop and have babies while someone else earned the loot, believe me, we would. We don’t need a “career” to feel validated. We don’t want to feel validated. We just want to feel boobs. As many as possible. And then, at the last minute, quickly have babies and then die.

ALEX JAMES

“Long-legged, expensive, bossy, messy wife required. GSOH not essential in the mornings, but must be able to climb trees and beat me at tennis sometimes.”

I’m not sure if that’s exactly what I would have written before I met her, but that’s what I got and she’s perfect for me. The moment I stop believing my wife is my ideal woman, I guess it’s over. No man can ever be sure whether he’s got a Linda or a Heather on his arm as the confetti falls, but I’m certain that nobody ever walks down the aisle with any sense of compromise. The whole absurdly wonderful, almost impossibly romantic thing about all marriages is that what you are saying to each other is: “You and me, we’re perfect.”

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