Whenever I see his face I think, 'what an adorable old man. I wonder if he's a professor? Maybe he has grandchildren, I bet he makes politely witty jokes steeped in brilliantly subtle academic double entendres over a family dinner, pipe in hand, charming shy smile at the ready.
I bet he has a kind wife whose laughter is loud and willing. I bet they get into all sorts of adventures where she hopelessly and good-naturedly slips up and he makes some calm remark before fixing everything. I bet his children harbor complex feelings towards their father, resenting the fact that they'll never quite achieve his masculine fatherliness, Simba/Mufasa style.
I bet he has a private library. I bet he's a peer or a fellow of some university somewhere, set deep in a continental city near a forest. I bet he reads his Sunday papers in a little cafe each morning with a good smoke, tipping his hat at his old friends with which he has never exchanged more than a few words but whose faces he will remember until his deathbed.
I bet he's happy. What a good man.'

And then I look around and realise he's posting nudes on a forum about some once-famous girlchild from the UK.

And then I get sad.