Poor James Packer, media mogul. After spending all that money on the Cote d'Azure wedding to his current model, the nuptial pix that drew most attention were snapped by paparazzi of James himself in his budgie smugglers, looking the way that males are not supposed to look these days. He exhibited man boobs and lovehandles, no six-pack, no tight buns. What a caviar-stuffed slob sniggered the Aussie hacks.

The brouhaha pinpointed the recent development: men as well as women are now expected to be sex symbols. In fact they are fair game if they are not, whereas any woman who does not inflame lustful fantasies in the males of the species is simply invisible which can be very relaxing.

Another similar Beauty and the Beast coupling has just hit the skids; Salman Rushdie, who has a facility with words, fame and dosh but neither a sixpack nor tight buns, has been left by his fourth wife the spectacular Padma Lakshmi (pictured left), whose beauty was so extreme that were she ever to grace a pavement, a car pile-up was sure to follow.

When extremely wealthy men go a huntin' for a wife, eight times out of ten they will choose one from the career path of "modelling". You would think that law, accountancy, or degrees in Third World aid would be more appropriate for someone who gets to share in the family squillions, but no, its this bizarre career of modelling that provides the gene pool for the super-wealthy.

And cashed-up alpha females from Planet Showbiz have started the trend of coupling up with male models. I worry for them. Just the term "male model" brings to mind such words as "dimwit", "very boring" and "effeminate", but those tanned gods in white Y-fronts in Vanity Fair may just be taking a year off from their astrophysics degree. We should not judge by appearances. The buff male body and chiselled chin are starting to compete with the goddesses in ads and billboards. The overwhelming message is of our culture is "Youth and beauty - This is as good as it gets!" What a pity they are so fleeting. What are we supposed to look forward to after youth and beauty have fled? Cosmetic surgery, I guess.

We accept this reasonably new phenomena of "the model" with little discussion or analysis. Slender photogenic young women (and now men) are endlessly photographed in order to sell every product in the pantechnicon of the production lines; just think of cosmetic and shampoo ads - the perfection achieved in the final image is quite inhuman. We know that the clothes are pinned at the back to give the impression of exquisite tailoring, and that hair and makeup professionals have spent hours painting and blowdrying. We know that bitchy assistants are fluffing round for hours to achieve perfection in the lighting department. And after all that the image itself is airbrushed and Photoshopped.

But no-one questions this; its just something that has crept up on us which we accept without remark. In many cases its quite a challenge to the imagination to work out how a gorgeous youngster in a red chiffon frock is associated with lending facilities, gas companies or real estate agencies, but I'll tell you my theory: the beautiful girl has become the apogee of all that is desirable in our world view. Men want to have one and women want to be one. The beautiful girl has such impact that men even snigger behind her back because they are all sharing the same prurient (or should I say masculine) thoughts about what they would like to do with her.

Other women may feel the unfairness of this beauty lottery, realizing they can never have the same impact, whatever cosmetics they use and whatever fashion labels they invest in. The beautiful girl has enormous power over men, but usually she doesn't realise this until she had time had time to reflect on her experiences, and by then her beauty has past. The ones who do realize can cause mayhem.

And everywhere we look, on huge billboards, in magazines, in television and movies, there are very beautiful girls. Oddly, walking down the street, these exotic creatures are rarely spotted.

Long ago during a passing phase of prettiness just after I had left school, a model agency offered me work, and I took it as I was saving to travel. Having been plain and shy at school, one would have expected a blossoming of confidence as I was primped and plastered with powder and appeared looking like someone I didn't know in magazines. But the behind-the-scenes experience was unpleasant; having to visit various photographers and their clients so they could check if you were up to scratch, compare you with other contenders and choose their favourite.

The others models I met and myself had all become insecure, obsessed with every tiny aspect of our physical appearance. The eruption of a pimple had the impact of a cancer diagnosis. When I overheard a well known gay photographer say to his assistant "Tell it to lift its skirt up, I can't see the legs", what little self-esteem I had left was finished. But I was booked for one more job, my biggest ever, which would pay me more than enough to travel for a year.

The Revlon mascara commercial was a full page and I had to sit prettily at a café table under an umbrella. I was dressed romantically in white, my hair was curled into weird ringlets and then the makeup artiste set to work with a huge toolbox chokka with face paint. After about an hour of application of base coats, top coats, blushers and eyeshadow, it was time for the mascara. And here's the punchline; she did not use Revlon mascara.

The finished photo duly appeared (I have forgotten to mention that that cameras hated me and I them). The girl at the café table looked like a Madame Tussauds creation. The advertising agency did not get their moneys worth but I certainly did as I was soon in Afghanistan where modelling and its associated neuroses seemed like what it is - a sick joke.

Now like many women of my age, I am invisible, although now and then I turn the head of a 70 year old or even a 65 year old, which is rather sweet. But I am experiencing worried maternal feelings for James Packer. Will a long buried inferiority complex (courtesy of his womanising overbearing father) be stirred up by the budgie smuggler jibes? Since his supposed lack of physical attraction has been highlighted, will he be worrying that his latest model doesn't love him for himself alone?

Thank God for Scientology, the science fiction cult in which James Packer and Tom Cruise and of course their latest spouses, plus many other starlets at the special Scientology Celebrity Centres, have been finding solace. So many of the wealthy and the showbizzy, the models, actors and the powerbrokers of glamour central (glamour is a word which means fake) are getting involved with Scientology that we can only hope that maybe soon they will all be whisked off to another planet.

I think we could cope without them.