The trouble is...

Her
You took my dreams from me
When I first found you

Him
I kept them with me babe
I put them with my own
Cant make it all alone
I've built my dreams around you

Listening to Christmas music today, I noticed that little bit of Fairytale of New York. Them's nice words.

It's a song. Like all the nice words. I wonder if Harry Nilsson ever reckoned he couldn't live without his lover? Did Anna Kournikova need Enrique to be her hero? And did the singer from Air Supply ever actually lie with his head on the phone? It's all very nice the whole idea that songs are actually written to someone, but they're not, they're written to sell singles. The two that spring to mind that are written for someone, the Lady in Drag, sorry, Red, and Wonderful Tonight are both "neh neh, she's mine, look at me publicly telling her she's braw" which isn't all that romantic. Romantic is "you" not "she".

See, with the exception of Enrique there, those songs are rather old. Back in that time when I was forming tastes and what not. Specifically, it would seem, my taste in men.

And that's when I was bombarded with images. Bond. Bond. Bond. Milk Tray Man. The Saint. Hello girls, this what a real man does. What do you mean he can't ski down hillsides? How's he going to deliver your rather boring chocolates? Other stuff I can't remember has left me with the lasting impression that real men can ski down any incline, can waterski, can jump from one moving vehicle to another, have a pun for all occasions and always get the last word. Oh yes. Charming, naturally. Devastatingly handsome. And complete shits. Each and every one of them. Not a decent bone in their body. Which forms the lasting opinion: bad men are attractive.

No they're not! They're rubbish! The real ones can't even ski! Or own a Jaguar!

Take Daniel Craig. Not particularly attractive, he's been in a few films and nothing registered. Then he was Bond. Hello! Why Mr Craig, you are suddenly the most attractive man on the planet. And look, he really fell in love, it's possible, you Can Change the Man. There is hope for all of us. Oh, that's a bit mushy now, that's not so attractive, no, maybe not... oh look, Angry Bond's back. Mmmmm.

Watching Survivors, which is rather good, the character played by Max Beesley is immensely fanciable. He's not very nice. He's a bit unhinged and ever so angry. Yummy.

Why? Why do they do this to us? Little girls should see only Disney, where the men are complete saps, but goodly and nice. Then we'd all fancy sappy men with strong jaws and propensity to burst into song, perish the thought. Because you see, girlies really want to be princesses. To be cherished. To have a pedestal to perch prettily on.

Anyone disagreeing with that princess thing by the way, I give you: weddings. The bride. The frock. The tiara. The bridesmaids, the carriage, the wank and circumstance: princess envy.

But it's impossible* to fancy someone nice and goodly and all that. It's just not attractive. Bad boys don't cherish; nice boys don't ski. Or something like that.

Damn you Mr Bond, damn you.

Luckily for me, bad men don't even realise I exist, so I got a grumpy one instead. It's near enough.

*surmountable in presence of other factors, which are a secret.