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'Hubba hubba', and other things you get away with saying if you have hot guy privilege

MEN know what they’re not allowed to say anymore and don’t – unless they’re got chiselled jawlines and great hair, in which case they still come out with these: 

‘Hubba hubba’

A smoking hot lady walks into a bar. If the bespectacled freak in the corner dared to vocalise this dated Hanna-Barbera cartoon slang, he’d be out on his ear. But if the male model leaning on the bar says it? It’s fun, retro, and on just the right side of ironic.

‘You come here often?’

It’s the most cliched pick-up line of them all, but when it comes from a guy who’s never had to Google any others it doesn’t matter. It could be a nightclub, a bus shelter or a garden centre café, you’ll blush and be there every day next week to meet the hunk again.

‘Yowza!’

No woman wants this childish reaction when she disrobes for a guy for the first time. Even Jim Carrey only used lines like this in The Mask. But the enthusiasm is appreciated, as are his deeply impressive abs.

‘What time do you get off, sweet-cheeks?’

Or, for the truly gorgeous guy who never gets challenged, ‘sugar-tits’. And sure, he could be the next Ted Bundy, but serial killers aren’t attractive and women know that so you give him your numbers and meet him at Spoons later. He’s an hour late but he’s six foot four.

‘Sex?’

Only someone with the charisma and looks of a young Clint Eastwood could make this not sound like a cold proposition to an escort. Instead, because boy got that hot privilege, he’s wittily cutting through that work-and-hobbies preamble to the good bit. You can worry about if it wasn’t a joke afterwards.

Garden office f**king freezing

A GARDEN office installed this summer as a perfect homeworking solution is f**king freezing, it has emerged. 

Will McKay put the summerhouse at the end of his 65-metre garden, complete with expensive internet connection in May, and has happily been working there until this month.

He said: “It used to be idyllic. The dappled sun on my rosewood desk, the birds chirping outside, the scent of fresh-mown grass in the air.

“Now the windows are lashed with rain, my chair’s damp, I keep jumping when rotten apples fall on the roof and it’s so bloody cold I can hardly type.

“When I get in here first thing I put the fire on all four bars and it’s still an hour before my breath stops condensing on my MacBook screen. By which time I can’t feel my toes at all.

“Branches rattle the windows, a magpie comes and pecks at the glass when I’m in meetings, and it’s so cold pens don’t work. But it’s miles back to the house and my old office is a wet room now.

“If only I’d known wood huts are freezing in winter, like the workmen installing it said. But I can’t admit they were right so I’ll soldier on.”