Darcy Porter.

Jane Austen has alot to answer for. Yes, she might be Britain's most famous and best loved female novelist who wrote books which captured and ridiculed a woman's passage through 19th (?) Century society just so, but by giving us Mr Darcy, she has given too many straight, impressionable women a reason to hope (or just downright delude themselves). Dawn Porter, alas, is no exception. I am now severely mentally traumatized after having watched one of her many "documentaries", this one being misleadingly titled "Dawn gets her man."

Dawn, in her own eyes, is the Bridget Jones of the noughties. A woman who is entrenched in her singledom, has a decent job, but is craving a long term love/ slap and tickle arrangement. But Dawn doesn't just want any Kebab shop/Mini cab lothario, she's upping the stakes just a little. Perfection. That's what she wants. As a greasy, flat chested cynic, I have long believed that human perfection is impossible to obtain unless you have the genes of several supermodels running through your veins or enough money to set up your own cosmetic surgery island lair (fitted with a Thunderbirds-esque plane launcher under the mountains to boot) somewhere in the Maldives. And the trouble with going to look for some form of perfect being with which to share your life, means that you will probably have to evaluate and scrutinise yourself for possible flaws and how to conceal them.

The whole documentary smacks of a presumptuous attitude; that Dawn deserves to go out with Mr England because.....because.....God knows why. She's pretty and what some people might call ditzy (mildly air-brained; she managed to mispell "rugged" within the first ten minutes) but she is by no means beyond minor corrections. But that's the same with just about everyone. Mr Darcy was a work of fiction, a solution to a problem that in reality, would have remained unsolved and the Bennett's family doomed to destitution. Fiction is fiction, that much is inescapable, even if you devise a series of compatability tests, bottle your own sweat or just relentlessly stalk unsuspecting males, it will never become fact.