I’m reminded of the Ricky Gervais joke when hosting the Golden Globes: ‘Once Upon A Time In Hollywood? Nearly three hours long. Leonardo DiCaprio attended the premiere and by the end, his date was too old for him.’
I’ve decided not to meet the younger man with the bad gazebo for a drink. I remembered the reason I never saw him again after our lunch: he stood me up!
I was in Soho House, at my table, when he cancelled, citing the distance (he and the gazebo are only 50 miles from London). The waiter removed the spare cutlery and glasses from my table with pointed clattering. I have no problem eating alone, I do it all the time. But I could have arranged to meet someone else.
Him being younger would never work. When the German was on the train back to London, having spent the weekend at my house, he obviously googled me, as he texted: ‘I know you are older.’ No s**t, Sherlock. And?
It was the first red flag. Ours was a small age difference and, given I’ve never had children, I reckon I can easily pass for 50, anatomy-wise (I interviewed Courtney Love, who guessed I was 35; in return she got a glowing review that didn’t describe her as a nutcase). I once had a fight with David 1.0’s ex who said she was ‘glad he’s found someone his own age’; he’s a decade older! Enraged, I messaged her, ‘Listen, Grandma. Every kid adds 10 years.’
Older men always want a younger woman. According to a study of 18,000 users on the dating app Feeld, straight men and women in their early 20s are typically attracted to slightly older partners. At 30, people become attracted to those younger than themselves. In their 40s and 50s, people are attracted to those at least a decade younger. This is particularly the case for men. Of course it is, the unhelpful, unrealistic b*****ds. For men aged 29 to 50, the desired age for partners never rises above 32. A quarter of men aged 50 are open to dating women aged 21.
Twenty-one!
I’m trying to think what I was like at 21. Not attractive, certainly. I was living in a bedsit in Barnes with no cooking facilities. I had acne. Without my glittering career I was, frankly, not a catch. (And yes, I’m calling it glittering as, in the green room at ITN a week ago, a famous female commentator recognised me and said, ‘Wow, 40 years on Fleet Street, 25 at the Daily Mail. What an amazing career!’ And I thought, yes, it has been amazing; virtually all of my contemporaries have fallen by the wayside.
I just read in Philip Norman’s brilliant and funny memoir about working at the Sunday Times Magazine, where I toiled and learned my craft for 11 years, it was ‘equivalent to an Oxbridge degree’. Listen, I’ve taken part in debates at Oxford and Cambridge, and the conversations with students over dinner beforehand were so boring, the undergraduates so gauche and entitled, I started to make a Sainsbury’s list in my head). Perhaps that is what men want. They crave boring or they feel overwhelmed.
Watching the undercover footage of Neil and the brunette midget buying tickets at the Odeon, I knew they were discussing popcorn and Coke (lipreading is just one of my superpowers). When he had dinner with me I told him I’d had a soak in Bruce Willis’s bath and had pissed off John Travolta. I told him how, waiting in line for a Hollywood party, Patrick Swayze was asked to show his passport; it wouldn’t have helped, he’d just had Botox. ‘It’s OK, he’s with me,’ I told the bouncer, waggling my press pass. And how about when I was inches from Donald Trump, and David 1.0 got bored carrying my spare outfit, and Special Branch blew up my Louis Vuitton?
So you can have your younger women, you boring, chippy saps. They will make you feel powerful, tall, manly, for a moment. Until they start having babies. I asked David 1.0 why he got divorced from the flying waitress. ‘She kept wanting me to buy furniture,’ he said. Which about sums up why I’m done with men. The only item my husband bought was an oven glove. Not that he ever cooked.
JONES MOANS… WHAT LIZ LOATHES THIS WEEK
- Remember I found flagstones in my kitchen, negating a new parquet floor? Woodpecker finally agreed to waive the 30-day cut-off for the return of the unopened oak, but charged me a ‘re-stocking fee’ of £400!
- I’m now obsessed with teeth, given my Turkey ones. I was watching Simon & Garfunkel in Central Park and, instead of being hypnotised by Art singing Troubled Water, I was going, ‘Those fillings!’
