It's little wonder the hand-picked real Kiwi girls with their perfect white teeth, designer clothes and coiffed updos are throwing themselves at Arthur Green (or "Art" as he's known in the women's mags).
He is without doubt everything real men should be, but are not.
And that is not intended to be a criticism of real men. It is simply that The Bachelor's "reality" is not sustainable or even possible for almost all of us living in the real world.
Like most people I would absolutely love to spend my days skydiving and my nights toasting marshmallows by candle light on a couch sculpted from sand.
Instead, almost every waking moment is taken up changing nappies or digitally removing wrinkles and arm fat in Photoshop.
While Art is seducing women at sunset, my idea of a good day is having baby daddy arrive home in time to lift the wriggling, soapy little mass from the bath so I get five minutes alone in it before story time. If I squint my eyes I can just about imagine the floating bath toys are rose petals, but only just.
So what I'd really like to see in this reality show is, quite simply, a little bit of reality.
We know from the endless column inches dedicated to Art across multiple media platforms that he runs operations for a paleo food business and likes to work out. A lot. So in the interests of reality, this is what I'm proposing for the next single date:
5am: alarm goes off. Sweat pants go on. Egg-white protein powder on-the-go then two hours lifting weights at the gym.
8am: Cereal followed by a romantic commute to work via Auckland's congested motorways.
9am: work.
10am: work.
11am: work.
12pm: more cereal and work.
1pm: work.
2pm: work.
3pm: freeze-dried fruit pieces and work.
4pm: work.
5pm: back to the gym.
7pm: dehydrated beef strips over a glass of chilled wheat grass.
8pm: bed (because body-con health food fanatics always go to bed early).
If this sounds like the perfect date with the perfect man, then ladies, go for it.
He's all yours.
I suspect the Art effect will be somewhat diminished when the directors call wrap and there are no junior producers running ahead to chill the wine, toss the petals and dig out the couches.
Of course, I could be being entirely cynical about the whole thing.
Perhaps Art is the first man on planet Earth to be all things to all women at all times. In which case he should be freeze-dried and on permanent display in a collectors' museum, not on the small screen at 7.30pm weekdays.
