Deborah Hill Cone: Randy old goats and the joy of socks

A while back I got invited to lunch by Richard Worth. We met at the Northern Club. In the trendy downstairs bar, known as the "gay bar" by some members, as it looks a bit more like a hairdressers than a gents' club. It was at least five years ago so I can't remember what we talked about - lefty tossers we have known, perhaps - but I'm pretty sure it would have stuck in my mind if anything untoward had been suggested. Perhaps I should be outraged that he never put the moves on: oi, not strikingly beautiful enough, eh?

We never had lunch again. I assumed he had invited me as part of that "keeping your Auckland networks alive" malarky that Wellington cardie-wearers drone on about as an excuse for coming up here for a bit of fun. I think that was the last time I saw Richard Worth. Facebook did keep suggesting we should be friends but I think that is automated. (Facebook periodically suggests I should be friends with Helen Clark.) The thing I remember about lunch with Richard Worth was that when we finished - not long, not that boozy, at least by my rotten journalistic standards - he gave me a pair of socks. Yes, you read that right. They were cool ones with a Parliamentary crest on them. Shows what a panty-waist journalist I am, I just thought, "Cool, a free pair of socks."

If I had been Duncan Garner I might have been able to construct an entire political narrative around those socks. Waste of Parliamentary resources, socks-for-stories scandal, and so on. They could have become the Tuku's underpants of the lower limbs. But I had nothing against Richard Worth and so I didn't even think about it. And I would like to put a word in for him and other randy old goats. Call them what you will, but the older, charming man, the silver fox, the ageing roue, is a breed to be treasured. At least by younger women. And the great thing is, even at 40 they can make you feel "younger".

ROGs like to have lunch. They like to talk. They like a drop. They usually have appallingly good anecdotes to share - maybe involving Ann Hercus or some such. They remember Muldoon. If in New Zealand, that is. Overseas examples of the genre may have had something to do with Margaret Thatcher: Alan Clark, Jeffrey Archer. Their patron saint is probably the late Kingsley Amis. They have been around long enough that they are not intimidated by feisty women - I'd even wager they could take on Cactus Kate. They know how to flirt.

The sort I am talking about are not predatory, because they know their cheeky stories are the best way to make women swoon. They are the perfect lunch companions. Best not to bonk them, if you can help it. Although they have been around the block enough times that they - and this is where Worth let the side down - are tidily discreet. I now wonder whether Worth's crime wasn't sleaziness; it was his dark blue blazer with brass buttons. It exemplified everything John Key's National Party is trying to get away from: old boys' club, patrician, born to rule, traditionally Conservative with a capital C . Who knows? Since we are not being told why Key lost confidence in Worth. Anyway, thanks for the lunch, old chap. And the joy of socks.

deborah@coneandco.com