Have I got the hots for you

The news that Andrew Marr, the BBC's erudite political editor, is among those whose name has been mentioned to replace Angus Deayton on Have I Got News For You? has been received with guilty excitement in some quarters.

Marr, who also replaces Jeremy Paxman on Radio 4's Start the Week from next Monday, is not someone you would automatically put in the phwoar category of presenters. But then again Deayton wasn't all that before he took up the chair in between Hislop and Merton, and those of us who have been holding a small torch for the jug-eared one (albeit discreetly behind their backs) think this may be the moment when we can, without risk of being mocked, come out and declare ourselves secret Marr-fanciers.

The unlikely sex symbol is a peculiar phenomenon and the very unlikely, you-cannot-be-serious sort is mystifying even to those of us most susceptible to their charms. Generally there has to be something extreme about the lust object in question, or something about them that goes against all the rules of sex appeal.

The accidental sex symbol is either ridiculously puny (Jarvis Cocker), frighteningly out of shape (Gerard Depardieu), dishevelled to the point of being a health risk (Dylan Moran, especially in Black Books), ginger and nasty (Damian Lewis's Soames) or a bit of an egghead, like Louis Theroux, say, or our Andrew - although admittedly Marr makes Theroux look like Tom Cruise in comparison.

Years ago, when everyone over 25 on the TV was baldish and well-spoken and bore a passing resemblance to Plug in the Bash Street Kids, Marr would have passed us by unremarked. But, as it is, Marr is one in a million, a regular nerdy type in a sea of Jamie Theakstons and Mark Austins (and you wouldn't get Marrsy swanning off to the South China sea to host a series of Survivor, of that you can be sure).

As a rule, women don't let principles rule our crushes, but a surfeit of floppyhaired, gleaming-teethed media boys can leave you (or so it would seem) craving more wholesome, substantial fare. And Marrsy is just that: a safe pair of hands who knows what he thinks. We like him because, unlike infinitely better-looking and smoother correspondents, he appears to be thoroughly committed, as clever as brain pie and loving every minute of it.

Admittedly 16-year-olds will not be plastering pictures of Marr on their bedroom walls, however much of a hit he is in the Deayton hot seat.

The Accidental Sex Symbol is something you only appreciate with age, and the gradual realisation that six-packs and pert buns may be distracting but if you want to have a conversation, and actually learn something, that could be sexier still. (By the way, the first sign that you are harbouring a secret Marrsy passion is when the boyfriend - hirsute, dishy, unemployed - starts nuzzling you during AM's piece to camera and you yelp, elbow him in the ribs and tell him to shut up before you kill him.)

The appeal of the ASS is always a trifle perverse and Marr is no exception. We like that he's a happily married father (it wouldn't be the same if he was single and on the pull); we like that he's bald (it makes him look extra cold and vulnerable on that bit of lawn near Downing Street); we like his crisp enunciation with a hint of a Scottish accent (as opposed to the creamy, I'm-your-pilot-for-this-evening sort).

It wouldn't work if he was a gameshow host, or the editor of a glossy magazine, but who knows - now that his name is cropping up in all the most glamorous circles maybe it won't be long before we are seeing Andrew Marr in showbiz suits, airkissing at parties, and then we'll just have to see if he retains his special charms.