In theory, being a wizened old sexagenarian, I should feel resentful of gorgeous young women, particularly those who have monetised their erotic capital in a way I could never have dreamt of, even at my fruitiest. But on the contrary, they make me feel like cheering; I’m particularly keen on Sydney Sweeney and her fantastic rack. There is, however, one famous actress who really gets my goat; I feel an almost physical reaction when I see her photograph. Sometimes, in restaurants, when they say ‘Any allergies?’ I want to reply ‘Yes – Sarah Jessica Parker.’ 

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On paper, I should love SJP. (It pains me to be so familiar with someone I loathe, but I resent the time it takes to type out her full name.) In an entertainment industry colonised by the privileged, she is from a blue-collar family of eight children. In an age of when Hollywood often appears twinned with Ramallah, she identifies as Jewish, though it’s her father rather than her mother who was of the blood, so extra points for volunteering. But my antipathy towards her is so strong that it overrides these two of my strongest favour-biases. 

I was never a fan of Sex And The City, partly because I admired the excellent Candace Bushnell columns for the New York Observer which it was loosely based on and was dismayed that the mordant wit which had made them famous had been replaced by a heinous hybrid of vulgarity and sentiment. As Carrie Bradshaw, SJP had only two speeds; grotesque wink-winkery whenever S.E.X hoves into view and the kind of sugar-sweetness which makes one want to murder a household pet in front of her to wipe that smug simper off her face.

Though I know in theory we feminist man-haters aren’t in favour of women being judged on their looks, I’m going to make an exception here. (Though to be fair I’d say the same thing about an unattractive man being cast as the lubricious lynchpin of a sex-drama.) Her face – elsewhere likened to a foot........

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