I find myself sitting on the 16:47 fast, Hugh Grant dabbing at my crotch with his manicured white hanky. How unfortunate that at this precise moment in my life I am not a woman - Julia Roberts for example. Instead, I imagine the potential poor-man’s Richard Curtis comedy were I to somehow become aroused: Hugh Grant pawing at my trousers, desperately trying to make light of the situation, yet unable to hide his obvious discomfort, and saying “bugger!” a lot.

I elicit a short rising giggle to make up for my lack of feminine pants-wetting. This probably alarmed my fellow passengers but I had Hugh Grant dabbing at my crotch so I wasn’t really paying attention to their specific needs.

In the interests of eschewing libel, I should elaborate on the Hugh Grant part. Obviously it wasn’t the official Hugh Grant, since I’m here reiterating it all for your sordid benefit; when you have Hugh Grant dabbing at your crotch, you tend to make the most of it. Although for libel reasons, that last sentence was a lie.

Instead of a de facto Grant encounter, I managed to receive the afformentioned dabbing from a rather attractive someone who happened to look very similar, although younger and with more of a Guy Pearce-ish Y-chromosonal influence. What made the guy at all memorable, apart from the groin-cupping, is that in addition to the facial Grantishness he possessed all the mannerisms too: gently affable, kind and compassionate, G.S.O.H. He actually offered to dab my crotch, and he did it with enough coy bravado to cover the fact that he was a raging homosexual (he wasn’t). He also wore a fitted brown leather jacket and jeans that complimented the general Grant effect.

There’s a bit of a chicken and egg debate over whether he grew up looking like Hugh Grant and affected the other attributes for a bit of a laugh, or whether he naturally behaved like Hugh Grant and received facial reconstructive surgery at a later date. Expects tend to conclude on the latter.

Nevertheless, at the time I was too overcome with glee to consider any of these thoughts. Instead I basked in wonder at the crotch dabbing, impotent (thankfully), like Cleopatra bathed by any of her assorted virgins, a mere spectator to the hands enamoured with her body. Or lacking the vaginal undertones, Priscilla, Queen of the Desert, perhaps.

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