A few years ago I grew a handlebar moustache for a few months, and I used to attract the weirdest characters. Once I was accosted on the train by a fellow waxer, who was a charming and friendly if slightly exuberant fellow. We engaged in light conversation and he chatted amiably with me and other passengers before he turned the conversation to his chosen profession, which was the sale and broking of 80s jazz mags such as Escort Razzle and Fiesta. British porn magazines have some of the best names. There’s something of Carry On about them. He proceeded to pass a few examples of his wares around the carriage which was much to the consternation of some of the middle-aged women that a few moments earlier had been squirming happily under the flattering spotlight of his flirtation. It was at no point clear whether this was a serious profession, or a hobby or even compulsive habit run wild.
Funnily enough, in the good old days when I was younger and still harboured some illusions about my own attractiveness, I used to go out - well, approximately - with a girl who had appeared in Escort a couple of times. She wasn’t an escort, I hasten to add - it was just the name of the magazine.
