I HAVE always been drawn to older men. If I found myself in a busy bar, I'd want to be pressed up against the greying chest hair of a man well into his mellowing middle years.

A 'new man' may respect your career and agree to load the dishwasher, but he is too busy being politically correct to carry your bags or open the door for you. He is so in touch with his feminine side he uses more Kleenex than you watching Fried Green Tomatoes.

A middle-aged man oozes sexual ease rather than the mad-eyed sexual zealousness of his younger counterpart. He is not too 'cool' to buy you flowers and whisper cheesy nothings into your ear. He doesn't bother dressing in the 'right' clothes and he isn't so keen to sell himself that he forgets to listen. An older man merely stands there, a beer in his hand, a smile on his face in his comfy M&S jumper, saying "take me if you want me, wrinkles an' all".

I would trade in a callow-faced youth for a man who looks lived in any day of the week.

And this is why I am surprised at my disgust of Mick Jagger and his philandering. He is 60 so he should qualify on my list of bedable bachelors/divorcees.

But I've never approved of Jagger's sinewy, rubber-lipped sharking or understood how he scores with his A-list girlfriends, including that gorgeous Brazilian model, the wondrous Sophie Dahl and, of course, his latest long-legged stunner, L'Wren Scott.

Perhaps he is that exceptional breed of older man who has never lost his deadly sexual ambition to bed as many beauties as he can and notch them all up on his bedpost.

I did gain a certain respect for him after watching a documentary of the Rolling Stones last week, and saw the magnetic energy and androgynous charm he had on stage in his youth.

But his annoying habit of dressing like a trendy young person and his frenetic jogging (age denial) disqualifies him from my sexual fantasies.

Keith Richards, on the other hand, is a different story. A wizened old sock, Keith just hangs around strumming or waving his fag louchely. He limps on to the stage and smiles artlessly, his face so crumpled you could be watching your granddad perform.

No more vandalising of hotel rooms for Keith. He probably goes home after a performance, puts his ear-plugs in and gets a full ten hours under the duvet, while Jagger is strutting his tight little booty through Claridges with his latest plaything, trapped in a rock star's time warp.

Keith has grown up and grown older gracefully. He is King Crumple and as sexy as they come.