Whispering sweet somethings

My dear friend’s Blab’s sister, Anne, and her friend Lisa, and I, had the briefest of Facebook exchanges just the other night regarding the relative merits of male escorts.

It all started when I admitted to Anne that I hankered after the actor Nigel Havers. His recent run in the soap opera Coronation Street, as the suave male prostitute Lewis Archer, worked me up into something of a lustful lather, I can tell you.

The velvet-voiced Charmer worked his way into the affections of no fewer than four of the Street’s senior citizens: Rita Sullivan née Fairclough née Littlewood, Claudia Colby, Audrey Roberts née Potter, and Deirdre Barlow nee Hunt, nee Langton, nee Rachid (played by real life lady of this realm Anne Kirkbride).

I can understand it. At my age the prospect of a no-ties relationship with a Nigel Havers look-a-like is a very appealing one; appealing enough for me to type “male escort Exeter” into Google.

But what a disappointment!

We’re definitely talking Escorts and not Audi Coupés.

West Country escorts look at though they don’t know how to handle a woman but they’d probably be very good with heavy machinery. Lewis Archer’s nails were beautifully manicured but I spotted traces of Swarfega under the nails of Colin from Cullompton.

By the time I’ve filtered out the also-rans and no-hopers there aren’t many left to choose from. The under-thirties are ruled out; we’ll have very little in common. Bald men; I worry it’s as a result of their heads rubbing against the headboard. Men with small hands and feet. Men with no fashion sense. And so on.

Don looked passable. He was wearing a fawn windjammer and a Pringle V neck. He is the Ghia of escorts. He works out of Dawlish and, by all accounts, is a compassionate listener with great stamina.

By contrast, Kenneth is an Escort Mark 1. His photograph captures him with a startled expression, at odds with the suggestive tugging of the belt of his Farah slacks. Ken, as he likes to be known, looks slightly jaundiced and would draw concerned looks on a dinner date I’m sure.

Being frank with you, I still have ‘urges’ but, at 78, the fact of the matter is I am quite frail and, like a bridge, there are weight limits. Anyone heftier than Nigel Havers could cause serious structural damage and the last thing I need right now is a shattered pelvis.

One thing is for sure though, at the prices this lot are charging I wouldn’t want sweet nothings whispering into my ear. If the meter is running, I would demand sweet somethings, and they may have to shout up a bit.