Elton John and David Furnish

I really don't like Elton John. There, I said it. Maybe it's because he sings with a fake American accent. Maybe it's because he spends more money on flowers than I'll earn in my life. Maybe it's because he rejected the unwritten man-rule of Male Pattern Baldness (shave hair, grow stubble, possibly invest in arty glasses). Whatever it is, I just don't like him. If you let him sing at my funeral I guarantee I'll haunt you.

Nonetheless, I still reckon he could do better than David Furnish. If only for the reason that David's face looks like a 2D mask. Hell, it's not the biggest problem in the world, but if I was worth a hundred and seventy million quid it's not something I'd put up with.

Thus, David Furnish, you are punching above your weight.

NB. Have you ever thought its a little odd that Elton John hires someone to write his lyrics, yet they are still utterly awful. For example 'If i were a sculptor, but then again no, or a man who makes potions in a travelling show'. I mean, seriously?

Paul Daniels and the lovely Debbie Mcghee

Oh time, what a great leveller you are. Eventually, we all die. Before that we all get ugly. Debbie Mcghee used to be reasonably attractive. twenty five years on, she looks like a Barbie who was owned by a small girl in a suburb of Chernobyl. Paul, in contrast, has always had an unfortunate face. He never felt the dizzying highs, so he doesn't suffer the crushing lows.

Plus, Paul Daniels can do magic and everyone knows girls love that shit. There is no more potent pulling suit than a dinner jacket, top hat, white gloves and wand. In fact, there's every possibility that Paul is sawing your girlfriend in half right now, if you know what I mean*. Debbie, on the other hand, used to stand around being lovely and now she can't even do that.

Oh, and Paul Daniels is excessively rich. I had one of his magic kits as a child, so I am personally responsible for adding a few pounds to his already well lined pockets.

Consequently, Debbie Mcghee, I pronounce that you are punching above your weight.

*I mean having sex.

Jamie Cullum and Sophie Dahl

Now, I'm not the biggest fan of Sophie Dahl's spade face or her incessant faux literati witterings but she is, I'm pretty sure, a pure-bred human. Not so sure about Jamie, he could well have a goat somewhere in his ancestry or possibly an aquatic mammal of some sort. Maybe an otter.

Also, what does he do for a job nowadays? I remember a few years ago he did a musac cover of Paranoid Android and was promptly hailed as The Future Of Jazz. As far as I am concerned, you can only be The Future Of Jazz for a limited period before you are simply Jazz. I'm no beret wearing, Kafka quoting beatnik, but I'm reasonably sure Jamie Cullum isn't jazz incarnate. That accolade goes to Mike Flowers Pops, clearly.

Therefore, Jamie, you are punching above your weight.

The pH test

Before my project begins, I feel I should clarify the ins and outs of punching above your weight. The best way, I feel, to do this is to start with a couple who punching at exactly the same weight.

Behold!

Yes, Vernon Kaye and Tess Daley. Now, I realise that he hosts embarrassingly bad Saturday evening quiz shows ('Can you drop a pea into a wine bottle' - I jest not) and she is monumentally stupid, but look a little deeper and it's clear they are perfectly matched. Not only are they both rather attractive, but their careers have taken a similar trajectory. Consequently, they are both equally desirable. Thus neither is punching above their weight. Capiche?

Capiche.

The Declaration

Hello there. My name is Ben.

This is me

And this is my girlfriend

A while ago I had a thought: There is a small possibility that my girlfriend may be marginally more attractive than me. Obviously, I initially dismissed this as a momentary lapse in judgement but, after many a sleepless night, I finally accepted the truth.

I can't say it didn't hurt. I started to feel bad about my appearance. I became paranoid that when we were out everyone thought my girlfriend was a TV presenter who was filming a hard hitting documentary about the mentally disabled. Eventually I stopped leaving the house at all, surviving only on the crumbs down the back of the sofa, condensation on the windows and bi-weekly Ocado deliveries.

But today it all changed. On my way to work I saw a short, dumpy, shamefully ugly woman strolling hand in hand with a a 6'4'' adonis. Suddenly I realised, I am not alone. There are others out there like me, walking day in day out in the aesthetic shadow of their significant other. And boy did it make me feel good.

So I made a declaration:

From this day forth I Ben Samuel will, tirelessly and unswervingly, using all means available to me, track down each and every soul on this planet who is punching above their weight. So help me God.*

*I'm not religious, I just realise this is an unfeasibly large project, and could do with a bit of divine intervention. Amen.