A week before writing this column, I found myself stealing glances at another man's legs. They were tanned, muscular and perfect. My adoring gaze was part-homoerotic fantasy, part-exercise in self-loathing.
I wanted those legs. On me.
Not in that way. I didn't fancy the man. I envied him. I wanted his bronzed limbs in place of the hairy twiglets that dangle beneath my Bermudas, like discarded appendages from Groot.
The legs belonged to Teddy Sheringham, a former Manchester United and England striker, now earning a good living as an after-dinner speaker and Benjamin Button impersonator.
He's ageing backwards. He's 56-going-on-46, capable of passing for a decade younger. When
