There's a New Man in my life. Well, he's not a 'New Man' in the accepted sense of the phrase. And he's not exactly mine - only in so far as he's on the telly, which makes him available to all. But Jimmy Doherty is today's ultimate expression of masculinity, a bloke about to hit pay dirt as TV's new heart-throb. And why? Because he can kill a pig. Probably with his bare hands, if needs must.
Doherty is the star of BBC's soon-to-air series Jimmy's Farm , which documents his heart-warming struggle to establish a pig farm on the outskirts of Ipswich. His rare breeds will roam freely in the picturesque oak woods of Suffolk, snacking on bracken and truffling for acorns and fallen fruit which will give his meat an exotic - and, he hopes, expensive - flavour. These are spoilt pigs, the Paris Hiltons of the porcine world.
And Jimmy. Ah, Jimmy...He is three parts Callum Best to one part Ray Mears. He's blessed with hands like shovels and hair like hay. Jimmy is tousled and slightly stubbly, a wheat field after harvest. Think Richard Briers with a twist of David Beckham. Part surfie, part lad, part edible. And just when you, the viewer, think that he's premium eye-candy but probably a bit lacking in the domestic department, he rustles up chilli-and-cumin ciabatta - on an open campfire! Ciabatta! I ask you? If this isn't boy heaven I don't know what is.
The Margot in Jimmy's good life is girlfriend Michaela, who wears very small jeans and says things such as, 'It's like Vietnam here, Jim', pointing out that the farm is a trifle overgrown, having been abandoned for 13 years. Jim, meanwhile, bounds around like a puppy, unfazed by the prospect of digging a three-foot trench for half a mile to access the mains water supply, or fencing in 30 acres of woodland using nothing but wire and pliers.
The genius of Jimmy and why he will no doubt capture the public's imagination in the way that his old mucker Jamie Oliver did - is that he's the Real Thing. The motivation for his project is, he says, 'to get back to nature, back to the soil. It's like being a child again, seeing the sunshine and the butterflies'. What's not to love?
To deliver the dream, Jimmy borrowed 55 grand from Jamie Oliver, and must live in a tent and shower from an Evian bottle until things are up and running (particularly the water). Yet still he manages to roast sea bass and bell peppers on his little log fire. Jimmy, you see, is what today's women really want: a multi-purpose man - a bit like a Swiss army knife, with a tool for every occasion. This guy would be good in a crisis, the kind of mate who could fashion a rainproof shelter and a meal for four from nothing but roadkill and a ball of twine.
'Jimmy will inspire everyone to care more about food - from how it's farmed to where to buy the best produce,' enthuses Jamie Oliver. He will also, I'm willing to bet, inspire a whole herd of young women to go positively gooey inside. And all because the lady loves a hunk who can cook.
The book which accompanies the series will apparently show us how to grow our own vegetables, how to keep chickens, how to pick the best pork at the butchers ('Do tell me, Jimmy,' I can imagine myself saying, over a smackerel of paté and a pint of scrumpy at an Ipswich hostelry, ' exactly how should I pick the best pork? I am absolutely fascinated to know.')
It's a far cry from the accepted expression of the ideal male - that Gucci-clad, diamond-studded urban fox of yesterday. With Jimmy roaming our screens, those fey designer suits, complemented by Italian shoes and an eighty-quid haircut, suddenly look wildly dated. Instead, we now want our heroes out in the woods, chopping down trees, fencing in livestock, herding geese and curing bacon. Even dear Hugh Fearnley-Whittingstall was dubbed a 'sex god' by interviewer Lynn Barber just recently, in this magazine. And why? Because... well, he can kill a pig with his bare hands, and then produce his own hock of ham and serve it with a home-made puy lentil accompaniment.
Doherty has the added bonus of looking like a man in line for a modelling contract, permanently wind-blown and sun-kissed, as though he's just stepped out of a wind tunnel or a dangerous situation with a wild boar. He even turns a flat cap and Barbour into something of a fashion statement, the kind of thing that could well catch on in Shoreditch or Manchester.
In short, Jimmy Doherty is about to become your pin-up. If he smells a bit of manure, if he's got dirt under his fingernails - well, so much the better. It is indication enough of our burgeoning desire for something down-to-earth in this ephemeral, virtual, dangerous world. Mark my words. Before long, Mr Beckham himself will be wearing Eau de Cochon and mucky wellies in homage to Jimmy D.
