How not to chat up a woman when you're horribly pissed

ALCOHOL makes you better-looking and more interesting – that’s just a scientific fact. Yet somehow women don’t always fall into bed with you after nine pints. Here’s what to avoid.

Losing all sense of relative attractiveness

You can definitely pull that tall, stunning blonde in the skintight leather trousers who exudes sexual confidence, right? No. The brutal truth is you don’t stand a chance in this admittedly unfair situation. It’s like Lady and the Tramp. Only the Tramp has mange. And rabies. And he’s been pancaked by a truck. 

Slurring your words and swaying 

Obviously people in a bar or pub are going to drink alcohol. So why are women so picky about not going home with someone who can barely speak and may have a drink problem? Maybe next time don’t drink so much your jaw hangs open and you have to remember to close it.

Sounding like a pervert

When slightly nervous, it’s easy to blurt out the wrong thing, for example: ‘I was buying a new mattress earlier.’ It’s true, it’s been on your to-do list for ages. But the context was wrong. Alcohol makes you babble away randomly, so you’re likely to say ‘I saw The Accused the other night. Great film’ when an obvious safe choice with a woman you don’t know would simply have been ‘The Batman’. 

Impressing ladies with your dance moves

Dancing is a rare skill, and you probably can’t do it. However alcohol disagrees. When you start ‘dancing’ like a sweaty Lego person – usually a strange marching action and lurching from side to side – any slim chance of pulling will evaporate. Especially with your ‘rave’ moves, ie. waving your hands in front of you as if you’ve suddenly and tragically gone blind.

Sharing your tedious interests

Very few women are girly girls entirely obsessed with clothes and make-up, but you’ve strayed too far from female-friendly conversation if you start saying thing like ‘There’s a lot more to Warhammer than people think…’ or ‘I saw a Jagdpanzer G13 Hetzer at last year’s Bovington Tankfest. Stunning.’ You may as well ask if they’re into collecting wild birds’ eggs and torture horror.

Futilely dragging the night out

If your attempts at pulling in one venue fail you try somewhere else. Thus the diminishing returns begin as you trog from one overpriced bar to another, getting drunker and less likely to pull each time, while female revellers call it a night. Which is wise considering it’s just drunk guys who are so knackered their best conversational gambit is: ‘So, d’you like Pointless?’

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A day in the life of a bigoted old white couple who'll decide our next PM

THE Tory leadership contest will soon be decided by the white, retired grassroots. So who are these key voters? Here party members Roy and Barbara Hobbs describe a typical day.

6.30am. Get up unnecessarily early and start drinking tea. Refuse to turn the television set on in case Channel 4 are still showing sex films, whose disgustingness you can only imagine. Imagine them intently, staring at the blank screen with mounting fury.

8am. Have a non-woke breakfast of fried bread, eggs, sausage, bacon and black pudding, just to annoy our do-gooder children who keep nagging about our cholesterol levels. We never had cholesterol in the 1950s and there weren’t all these druggies then.

10am. Daily Express arrives. ‘43 DEGREE SCORCHER, TIME TO BASK IN THE SUN!’ it says. Do so, minus sun tan lotion and if doctors don’t like it, up yours, doc! 

Midday: Drink a gallon of water to slake our inexplicable thirsts. Then put 20 more gallons on the lawn with the hose. No eco-fascist is ordering us about. Not that they ever have. But they will. All this recycling is like Nazi Germany.

2pm. Go for a walk by the canal. It probably used to have loads of wonderful statues. We’re not sure – we only took an interest after the lefties started tearing them all down. If there were statues it’s disrespectful to our country and they should be shot. 

4pm. Roy goes upstairs with binoculars to examine the young woman next door, who sunbathes if it’s hot. She needs to be kept under surveillance in case she’s committing benefit fraud. Everyone’s at it these days.

6pm. Turn on the news on the Bra Burning Communists. That’s Roy’s hilarious joke name for the BBC. It’s a woman newscaster, naturally, who only got her job through quotas. Nicholas Witchell is the only one with any respect these days. Shame he looks like a naked mole-rat now. It puts you right off your rich tea biscuits.

8pm. Midsomer Murders on ITV3. A reminder of a more gracious England, in which there were no strikes or demonstrations, and we settled our differences discreetly by poisoning each other.

10pm. Time to follow the leadership contest. Sunak or Truss? Truss reminds us of Margot in The Good Life. Sunak reminds us of the charwallah in It Ain’t Half Hot Mum. We both agree Liz wins hands down.

11pm. Bedtime, but first we pray to God for guidance on the leadership contest. God says to vote for the one most like Thatcher and ignore the teachings of Jesus because he was a sandal-wearing communist. Thank you for your guidance, Lord. Jesus must have been such a disappointment to you, just like our own children. They work in the arts.