The vouchers have run out. A rare commodity

Why do scoundrels triumph in life? Why has the good man never come into fashion? In the ‘diary of errors’ – which has been thoroughly plundered in this summer column – there is a hilarious note by Flaiano that provides an excellent approximation of how things are (or were?): ‘Indulgence for people who behave badly. The man who arouses neither sympathy nor compassion is the average man, honest and with no great inclination towards evil. The man who works to make ends meet, who starts a family and provides for it. The average man is unlikable (I am unlikable. People just put up with me). To become likable, one must behave like a scoundrel; to be loved, one must be supported. It is the erotic misunderstanding that continues. Pity for sex replaces feelings. The villain offers those sexual guarantees that the respectable person does not. Actions against morality and society are symptoms of vigour and sexual ease in those who commit them. Temperament! Those who behave properly admit to their ‘ordinary’ sexual activity and are of no interest.”

Let’s be honest, ladies, and ask ourselves whether we haven’t been on this misguided quest – perhaps unwittingly – for the past twenty years, wearing ourselves out in the process. Then, thankfully, a love of reflection prevails and we learn (some more than others) to prefer the quiet types. The decent bloke. Found in large numbers in the old ecosystems: the soft-spoken, studious lad with domestic interests. Cinema, reading. The sort who would have betrayed you, but with grace, later on, almost by mistake. Forgivable because he was a sheep from the fold.

Among the very few generational successes of the millennium is the fact that the ‘clumsy-yet-brilliant’ pig is no longer as interesting as it once was. The Ranucce Adventures in 2026 just make people shrug and nudge one another. But who are these older individuals in the nightclub, these bar brawlers? Who wants them, these fakes? The real Mastroiannis have become a laughable minority; they don’t even feature in the ‘zero point’ basket, whilst the other aristocratic scoundrels are all caricatures. They do make a bit of an impression, mind you – they look like Surveyor Calboni from Fantozzi – but nobody’s falling for it any more.

Armed with this new realisation, the girls say to one another: let’s snap up this lovely bloke straight away, hand him over to us – we won’t make that classic mistake again. Enough of breaking our hearts for love; that’s not a ‘Love’ with a capital ‘L’, but the adrenaline rush of scarcity: when there’s little of the good stuff, it seems even better.

Except that, according to the latest market research, it seems we are facing an unexpected catastrophe. Women are doing increasingly well in every sector, reaching senior positions and earning high salaries, whilst men – who are infallible when it comes to taking advantage of circumstances (is it testosterone, or is it instinct?) – are now just waiting to be snapped up.

In America, reports The Cut, luxury matchmaking agencies are becoming the only option: more and more educated women with good jobs are paying a small fortune to outsource their search. At Select Date Society, 82 per cent of clients over the last three years have been women; some services start at 75,000 or 100,000 dollars, whilst others go up to 150,000 dollars and beyond. The problem is that the ideal candidate is, understandably, looking for a suitor who is equally ideal: educated, attractive and with some money of his own. By adding more and more requirements, observes one matchmaker, you can end up ruling out 95 per cent of the male population. Match Resource works with more than 150 matchmakers and says that 95 per cent of its searches are on behalf of women; one of its recruiters can review up to 26,000 profiles a year to shortlist 500 or 600.

In short, the ‘good bloke’ has adopted the technique. To put it more elegantly, we could say: identification with the aggressor; after being slapped round the face time and again by those who didn’t want him, he’s learnt to dish it out. And so we’ve arrived at the latest terrifying incarnation: the ‘dead cat’ – the one who says, ‘I’d like to, I wouldn’t like to, but if you want, let’s catch up over the next few days; yes, I’ll ring you.’ When women in their thirties who do not wish to be on their own write to me in the advice column: "There really is no one left out there", I begin to believe that it is not the usual exaggeration at all.