Katy Guest: What every woman needs – her very own skanky slob

Famous unanswerable question of our time No 783: how is it that, when a silly, 33-year-old, "celebrity" former nurse turns down sex with a shouty, 58-year-old, hairy-arsed man, the next day's headlines finger her as a "slapper" and him as "the real deal"?

Nobody knows the answer to this, but this is OK. The thing to remember is that Abi Titmuss is a Shifty Little Trollop, while Mickey Rourke (for it was he) is a Cool Guy. By all accounts, Abi let him down all too ambiguously. ("I won't be having sex with you tonight," she said, leaving the option open that another night she might be well up for a bit of nooky if he were willing and able, and promised not to brush his teeth until then.)

As he rolls around Britain belching, swearing and pawing at girls, the one thing that strikes us all is that Rourke's behaviour is really cool. At the Baftas last Sunday he thanked his co-star in The Wrestler, Marisa Tomei, because she "took her clothes off a lot and, er, I liked looking at her".

When he grabbed Thandie Newton's bottom and told her, "You're fit", you could clearly see her blushing with gratitude. He also celebrated his publicist for "telling me where to go, what to do, when to do it, what to eat, what to dress, what to f***". If Beavis and Butt-head were ever to give an acceptance speech, this would be it. Barack Obama is probably already negotiating with his scriptwriter.

Mickey Rourke is a sure-fire role model for British men, as if a role model were needed. Already, Jeremy Clarkson must be studying his performance, taking careful notes on the rakish sweatiness and the blinding wit.

Poor Jerry suffered a setback recently when he overstepped the mark with a foolish little joke. "In the heat of the moment, I made a remark about the Prime Minister's personal appearance for which, upon reflection, I apologise," he said, like a boy called before the headmaster, baring his rosy cheeks. He had crudely called Gordon Brown a "one-eyed Scottish idiot", when the charming thing to say would have been more in the line of a dead prostitute gag. But this is a broadcaster with an otherwise unblemished record; anyone can make a mistake.

The promising thing is that other men are catching on to the idea that this is how to woo women and really cheer them up. Even David Cameron, who has hitherto failed to shine as a Casanova, showed an arousingly blokey side last week.

Criticising a Tory councillor for displaying a page three poster, the Leader of the Opposition clarified that he was not opposed to topless birds in the workplace per se. "I am as much a fan of Keeley as the next man," he explained, declaring that page three is a great British institution. Margaret Thatcher must be celebrating the day she first dipped his dummy in cheap Scotch.

One wonders whether these boys were fans of Blue Peter as they learned the art of flirtation in their formative years, because its former presenter Peter Purves turns out to be a veritable god of this form of romance. In his new autobiography, he discusses a fling with Valerie Singleton and implies another with Lesley Judd. But that's nothing compared to the one about the sex shop in Copenhagen. And that Biddy Baxter sure gets her just desserts.

The one thing I fear is that men will wear themselves out, and fail to sustain the flattery beyond the Valentine's weekend.

So for this reason only, on behalf of the women of Britain, please slow down. There's only so much we can take. We are delirious with desire. Please, Mickey, go back home before we faint.