AS a couple, we wondered if there could be something more to our hollow lives. So we tried buying everything we wanted all the time, and it’s been brilliant. 

We were inspired by a friend of ours, who spent a full year without spending anything and was always boasting of how blissful it was while reeking of cheap Jojoba shampoo from the cash-and-carry. What if she’s wrong? we thought.

So, on October 12th last year, we began our bold experiment. We vowed we would buy whatever we wanted, no matter how impulsive or wasteful. We would give in to any consumerist impulse. And 12 months later our house is just teeming with stuff.

Designer clothes, pizza ovens, gaming laptops – we bought it all. We bought furniture we don’t have room for. I paid £2,500 for a ride-on mower even though we only have a small back garden and it’s paved. But you know what? It makes me happy to see it sit there gleaming.

Nights out? We’ve seen opera at Covent Garden, shows in the West End, Bruno Mars at Wembley Stadium and a man swallowing eels for money in the back room of a Dagenham pub. And every single one of them was better than a night in playing Uno.

We can barely get around our own home, so full is it of Linn hi-fi equipment, Stöckli skis, Scubapro oxygen tanks and discarded Louboutins. And it feels bloody great. So what if we never use it? It’s still ours and you’re jealous.

How did we afford it? Well, I had a small bequest from an aunt, we refinanced the house and we sold anything that bored us. You’ll be amazed how much you can get for an in-box Omega Speedmaster Moonwatch Professional you didn’t like the colour of.

So if you’ve ever wondered ‘Am I spending enough? Do I really want all these things? Is it just marketing?’ the answers are no, yes, and no respectively.

Now if you’ll forgive me, I’ve got a £2,500 Givenchy mohair blazer to try on, say ‘nah’ and discard carelessly onto an Eames chair. What heaven it is to be alive.

The voluptuous hourglass, which was spotted frolicking through the dusty recesses of a Cheshire antiques fair, teased the public by displaying its trademark figure which has been copied by icons like Marilyn Monroe, Christina Hendricks and Beyoncé.

Admirer Martin Bishop said: “I know I shouldn’t objectify primitive time-measuring devices, but I’m a red-blooded man and I’d cheat on my Sekonda for a go on that in a heartbeat.

“Just look at those bulging assets. The seductive way the sand trickles through its pinched waist from its heaving top half to its Kardashian-eqsue lower half. Christ I’d love to turn that baby upside down and watch ten minutes pass by.

“I can see why women model themselves on this. It’s definitely sexier than sun dials or Big Ben, which must be why they’ve never been used to describe hot ladies wearing plunging swimsuits or skimpy bikinis.”

Girlfriend Lucy Parry said: “Seriously, you’re impressed by that trashy time piece? It’s just a load of fake curves made in a workshop by some glassblower.

“Looks fade. Once that sand clogs it won’t even accurately time an egg anymore, and then it’ll have to develop a personality if it wants to attract men.”

The trend of wearing fake nipples to draw attention to your chest was showcased at this year’s Met Gala and is now available on the high street, with men in their 40s leaping aboard.

Julian Cook, aged 48 and looking to settle down with a 23-year-old, said: “They say it gives the illusion of youth. I’ve bought three packs.

“I arranged them down my chest so it looks like I’ve got a classic row of suckling teats, which indicates that I’m not only youthful, healthy and fertile but a provider. Which I am. I bought my last girlfriend a £1,500 bean-to-cup coffee machine.”

51-year-old Oliver O’Connor, whose two divorces were not his fault, agreed: “Nipples are sexy. I already open my shirts to the sternum. Imagine how much sexier I’d be if I had 12 nipples to show off?

“So I’ve bought multiple silicone nipples, absolutely top quality, the same ones Vladimir Putin wears, and I’ve stuck them all over my body. Elbows, forehead, back, the lot. It’s called nipplemaxxing. That’s a youth term, you’re probably not heard it.”

Carrie Ryan, aged 34 but 26 on Hinge, said: “Uh. Bad enough I’m dating older men, but now I’m doing the walk of shame with a stray nipple stuck to my arse?”

Oliver O’Connor attempted to make conversation with a woman walking some sort of Labrador without letting slip that he secretly does not like dogs, only for her to ask if he was a ‘dog person’ as her very first question.

He said: “Oh for f**k’s sake. Couldn’t we do some small talk before going straight to ‘hey, do you vibe with getting attacked and drooled on by hair-shedding vermin?’

“I haven’t even done anything yet and it had to be a fit girl, didn’t it. And within seconds she spots I have no dog, no kindness and no soul. Don’t display fear, dogs can sense it. And whatever you do don’t look at the dog.

“F**k I looked at the dog. Now I have to pet the dog. Maybe that will shut the little rat bastard up. No, it’s leaping at me and yes, I’m flinching. I’ve let out a little cry.

“What if I’m just honest? ‘No, not really. I find them to be horrendously unhygienic and needy and would hate to wander around a public space holding a thin plastic bag of warm shit. You?’ Ah she’s gone.”

Jo Kramer said: “I knew he wasn’t a dog person from the first moment I saw his contemptible face. His kind should be rooted out and destroyed.”

Jordan Gardner met James Bates at a sign-up session for kickabout football and, keen to make new friends, made the mistake of starting a conversation.

Jordan explained: “The university years are the best of your life, or should be for the cost, so I’ve been trying to put myself out there more. I never knew it could go so horribly wrong.

“We arranged to meet at the bar later, where he immediately barrelled into a conversation I was having with a fit girl on my course and wouldn’t shut the fuck up about how he can’t wait to try loads of recipes in his air fryer. Then listed the recipes.

“He twisted my arm into buying him a pint saying he’s waiting for his loan, then ruined my second try at the fit girl by forcing me to look at pictures of an OnlyFans model he’s subscribed to.

“I tried to get rid of him by saying I was tired, but he followed me back to halls and started having a go at my housemate for wearing shoes indoors, saying, ‘That would get you arrested in Japan’. That flatmate’s not spoken to me since.

“I spoke to my resident advisor, and he told me to quit football, change course, request to switch accommodation and begin going by a different name. Otherwise the twat will end up being my best man.”

I WAS all ready for the school run. Miu Miu coat. Mulberry bag. Devastating list of my children’s achievements. Then nothing happened, because I’m in Warrington. 

I joined the throng around the gates, waiting for our children to depart and for a wave of competitive boasting to begin. Would we be aggressively comparing our husband’s jobs? Our Etsy stores? Houses, cars, holidays? As it turned out, none of them. 

No, when our little ones wandered in, the other mothers turned around and silently departed. I was left there, chai latte in hand, mouth agape, with nobody to tell about the triathlon I’m doing in May. 

I tried again the next day. ‘Can anyone hook me up with a private tutor?’ I asked. ‘Isabella’s struggling with her Spanish.’ Blank looks. ‘They’ve got teachers at the school,’ one drab mother who can’t have spent even an hour on her hair muttered. 

Okay, so this crowd isn’t aspirational! Though still managing to ostracise me, I noted, impressed. 3pm was no different. I announced my intention to organise a fundraising gala to shrugs. Where was these mothers’ combative spirit? 

My husband’s bonus? Nothing. Our plans to build a basement swimming pool and home cinema? Nothing. Our half-term trip to the opening gala for Santander’s new art museum? Either they’re hiding it very well or they actually weren’t jealous. 

I told my husband it was a mistake to move here. In anywhere civilised I’d already be at war with the ruling clique after they shut me out of the PTA for having the wrong kind of Cockapoo. We’re moving back to Islington. 

Wistful masturbator Martin Bishop, 38, has grown weary of the gangbangs, JOI videos and sploshing pornography he has no choice but to wank over, and would rather look at teasing photos of women in bikinis instead.

He said: “My teenage self would be gobsmacked that I’m admitting this, but I’ve had my fill of watching people f**k. I guess with age comes an appreciation for the simpler things in life.

“Just as people have rediscovered the value of physical media, I think society should bring back the humble Page 3 calendar. Each picture of Samantha Fox or Linda Lusardi folding their arms over their tits will be a reminder of better times.

“We were too quick to move past photo shoots of women washing cars in their undies. Nothing in the vast repository of online porn can beat their eroticism. And I should know, I’ve done the exhausting research.

“Modern porn has its charms, but it relies on too many gimmicks. Angela White doesn’t need to do a bukkake session to get me going, she’s hot enough as is. I’ll still watch it, but I have my reservations.”

Bishop’s wife Emma said: “I agree. Awkwardly watching Baywatch with your parents was a character-building rite of passage. We tried settling down in front of Pornhub on the living room telly, but it’s just not the same.”

Trying to impress someone you will never see again: £200

Freshers’ week is a blur of face, names, and telling everyone what A-levels you did because you’re incapable of adult conversation. But that guy, the one from the first night, the cool one? He said he was into vintage leather jackets so you casually drop a couple hundred on a fine example, then never see him again. Not in three years.

Tickets for a gig you thought everyone was going to: £85

Everyone’s fighting for the metaphorical aux cable to boost their aura with music, and you scored a hit with Bryson Tiller. ‘He’s touring, we should totally go,’ you said and everyone loudly agreed then didn’t buy tickets when you had. Except the flat’s nerd who is now expecting to go with you in December and it wasn’t meant to happen like this.

Something massive and impractical for your room: £390

You’re out shopping with your squad, high on consumerism and peer pressure and not yet comprehending how rich the rest of them are. ‘Always wanted a turntable,’ you muse, and now Ambrose can’t rest until you buy one, and eight records because you need something to play, and it’s collecting dust by December.

Night out with foreign students: £550

You thought Ambrose was rich. Until you got dragged on a night with a largely Chinese group that took in a bar, a club, a strip club, a rickshaw ride, and a private gambling club in a basement. It only cost you £80, you thought, until you’re added to a WhatsApp where a man you remember saying ‘We’ll sort it after,’ is asking you for a further £470.

E-bike: £1,350

Nicked, first week, before you’d insured it.

Train travel to see mates who aren’t bothered: £120

Your best mate Sally is loving life in Liverpool so you go up for her party. She doesn’t meet your train. She doesn’t answer your calls. She isn’t in when you arrive, and her housemates didn’t know you were coming. You spend an uncomfortable evening as a hanger-on to a twat who about 16 days ago was a good mate, and Liverpool looks shit.

Deliveroo: £238

Who can be bothered with cooking? Or shopping? Everyone else is just ordering in and you can’t blow the house vibe by making a sad little microwave meal so you do the same, and over a fortnight it becomes second-nature and then you realise you’ll still be paying this off in your late 40s. Still, nice to see your e-bike again.

Jack Browne, aged 20, has undisputedly had sexual intercourse but nevertheless carries with him the unmistakeable aura of someone who has never touched a woman in his life.

He explained: “I thought that when I finally put my penis into a vagina that everything would magically change. You know, like in films.

“After I first made love to my university girlfriend, I saw myself swaggering out of the room completely purged of all my teenage anxieties and hobbies and personality. A new man, sexually confident and effortlessly alluring. But I’m exactly the same.

“It was just a real let down to see a pair of boobs in real life and discover that I still want to play Warhammer and I don’t magically look good in a leather jacket.

“I haven’t lost faith in sex turning my life around. I just think I need more of it. So I’m making a spreadsheet tracking my level of sexual activity against my perceived raw sexual charisma to see if sustained intercourse produces better results for my self-image.

“Oh my God, that is the most virgin shit I could possibly do.”

Tom Booker has realised he was not a teenage loser but well ahead of the curve, and believes the person he was 26 years ago would be the most popular kid at school today.

He said: “Sad wanker, they called me, just for having more than 2,000 porn mags. Well Gen Z boasts about how much they goon. Who’s the sad wanker now?

“And joining the Young Conservatives was death for my social life. With today’s edgy online teens, the only concern was that they’re not Nazi enough for lols.

“Being a politically incorrect loner who stays in, doesn’t booze, doesn’t shag and gets socially anxious is ‘based’ now. Pokémon, high-waisted trousers, socks and plastic sandals, and calling everyone a paedo are rewarded behaviours.

“My wispy moustache was mocked. My glasses got me called Deirdre Rashid. I was boring for not going to the pub. Staying in watching The Office was called being a friendless twat then, and now it’s normal. I feel validated, but I’d much rather have been popular.”

Booker added: “I posted some photos of myself at 20 online and had DMs from hot girls asking which charity shop sold me that cool vintage cardigan. I cried.”

School reunion

You’ve been in touch with a few of them, but now there’s an official event of your whole year, and you absolutely have to bring your wife to prove that you can pull and you’re not gay and that graffiti about you was a lie. But is she keen on an evening of niche nostalgia about who shat themselves in a French mock? Or has she got food poisoning?

Second cousin’s third wedding reception

You weren’t invited to the first two but she’s fallen out with everyone so needs you to make up the numbers. It’s at a former Labour club in a dodgy bit of town. You’ll barely know anyone there, bear grudges against those you do, and it’s not a free bar. When your husband says he’s coming down with a bug you know he’s lying and don’t blame him.

Classic car rally

Renovating a clapped-out Morris Traveller when you have too much time on your hands is an admirable achievement. Naturally you want other middle-aged men to validate you when they’re not cooing over their own Mk1 Ford Cortinas. But your wife already hates you and cannot be in a field with a hundred men just like you. ‘I’m ill,’ she says.

Soft play birthday party

The birthday boy is all of three, as is your own progeny. They won’t give a shit if your boyfriend is sitting there on his phone while screaming, sugared-up sweaty kids crash into the table and spill his third latte at 9:30am on a Saturday. You want him there for moral support, but he goes out until 3am the night before instead to ensure vomiting. Clever.

The West Midlands Comic-Con

Why? Why would anyone dress up as Deadpool just for photos with people who wouldn’t want the photo if you weren’t unrecognisable? What’s the attraction? And, apart from proving your existence, why would your girlfriend need to be there? She allows what is clearly a quasi-sexual kink, that’s enough. Her excuse? ‘Getting a bit of a bad leg.’

Annual company awards ceremony

He already endures the torture of your corporate grumblings on a daily basis. Why would he want to meet these pissed, brown-nosing corporate clones circle-jerking over pre-paid accomplishments? Just to watch you accept a meaningless prize from the boss you f**king hate? Faking illness is a compromise. Your boyfriend would rather fake death than go to this.

Getting out of bed

For years your failsafe alarm was your exasperated mum yelling increasingly annoyed demands for you to leave your pit. Now you discover being alone in halls and relying on your hungover self to manage timekeeping is a f**king nightmare, and you can’t ask mum to ring you every morning because she’ll just laugh. Luckily you discover a clever way to free up time for a more civilised start to the day: skip lectures for three years.

Getting about

That ‘Mum’s taxi’ sticker in the back window of her car was there for a reason. At uni there’s no such service, which is a disgrace and Burnham should do something. Instead there’s a choice of buses, cycling, walking, or what will become the most popular transport option for you: not bothering.

Feeding yourself

Home was like Hogwarts, where all the delicious food you like magically appeared. Now you’re having a bitter taste of independence. Initially you can live on takeaway deliveries but it’s a fool’s paradise and your cash will start to run out. You can mooch off the one mature girl in your block who can cook, but when she gets fed up of sharing her pasta you’ll have to make your own meals, or rather start rehydrating instant noodles. However by necessity your culinary repertoire will soon expand, so look forward to instant noodles on toast. 

Washing and ironing clothes

It used to be irritating when your mum interrupted your gaming with a pile of washed and ironed clothes and fascistically asked you to put them away. They didn’t get clean and crease-free being scattered on the floor, as you’re about to find out. But don’t worry – you’ll be going home with a bag of stinking clothes and crispy bedding soon. And also don’t worry that it’s obviously just to get decent food and your laundry done. Your parents and the washing machine will be expecting you.

Cleaning yourself and your room

You’ll be packed off with cleaning products and given an explanation of how a trigger spray and cloth works, but that alone is unlikely to result in a clean bathroom. Hopefully you’ll have a bossy housemate with basic hygiene expectations in a not-all-male household, or you’ll learn that the toilet in The Young Ones was only a mild exaggeration. 

Paying for things

At first you’ll be flush with cash from your maintenance loan and your parents. However three weeks later when you’ve blown the lot on alcohol and the odd textbook you’ll realise, shockingly, that budgeting, which absolutely everyone told you to do, is something you should have done. At first the bank is your friend and will extend your overdraft, but they have a tendency to suddenly stop giving you money to throw Jägerbombs down your neck and back up again. You should have known the capitalist fatcats didn’t really care about your education. 

All those who pay no mind to school holidays to take advantage of cheaper deals and cooler climates are right now standing around at Gatwick wishing they had not decided to go with shorts for the flight.

Martin Bishop of Leominster said: “I could watch this footage all day.

“Look at that guy there. He’s just queued for 40 minutes at Costa and paid £13.75 for a coffee and a dry, unpalatable croissant and that’s his breakfast. That’s his f**king breakfast. I had blueberries on my porridge, dickhead.

“They’ve spent all summer bragging about how Crete is ‘so much better once the heat of August passes, and actually far more affordable’ and now they’re spending two days of their holiday at East Midlands Airport.

“And according to the news even when they finally get flown out their luggage won’t, so they’ll spend all holiday in cheap Spanish polyester filing compensation claims on their phones. Ah. Glorious.”

Holidaymaker Carolyn Ryan said: “I may have been stuck at Heathrow for 26 hours but I haven’t got any bratty kids while I do it. So I still win.”

Death-defying rollercoaster

We began by riding The Smiler, the Alton Towers rollercoaster with a world-beating 14 loops, while pleasuring each other by hand. But the repeated inversions disorientated my girlfriend so much she gripped my cock until it went blue then all but pulled it out by the root. I almost passed out from the pain. The official photo was deleted.

Diving with sharks

The thrill of coming face-to-face with an apex predator underwater was a lifelong ambition. And erotically thrilling. But wetsuits zip open at the back, and even when I managed to tear a hole in the front of mine and mimed to my partner to fellate me between breaths it wasn’t a success. And we’re banned for life from the Blue Planet Aquarium.

Climbing Everest

Reaching the summit of Mount Everest was a once-in-a-lifetime achievement, but I had to go and ruin it by getting fanny at 29,031ft. Diverting valuable blood from my brain to my erection gave me altitude sickness, the droop, and I had to trail my shame back through 200 angry rival climbers across the Khumbu Icefall.

Tracking gorillas

It was truly humbling being in the presence of endangered mountain gorillas in Bwindi Impenetrable National Park. We were instructed on various body language dos and don’ts, none of which prohibited doing my girlfriend doggy-style while in close proximity while a silverback watched on. It was touch and go, but I managed to finish.

Vertical camping

A night under the stars dangling from the sheer vertical granite rock face of Yosemite’s El Capitan in a tent 3,000 feet up? Talk about turn-ons. Except it did begin lurching alarmingly and we both slowed our thrusting to the point it was purely nominal and I was attempting to reach orgasm just by thinking hard.

Tornado chasing

I convinced my girlfriend to chase tornados in Kansas in a VW camper van. We parked up when we saw a big twister, but in hindsight I shouldn’t have initiated oral. Apparently the van flipped 13 times and the paramedics were unable to confirm whether or not my girlfriend had climaxed. I like to think she had. I suppose we’ll never know.

Zero-gravity flight

The ultimate bucket-list activity: weightlessness in a diving converted Boeing 727. Obviously I was doing it solo but I thought I’d just chat up a girl on the flight. None were keen and one recognised me from the news about the tornado tragedy. I fiddled with myself for 30 seconds, didn’t come, and it didn’t even feel like someone else was doing it.

Martin and Donna Bishop were speechless after Wayne Hayes mentioned how much more beautiful the Serenity Beaches resort in the South Pacific is than the southern atolls of the Maldives.

Martin said: “What happened to Skegness Butlins? Or Torremolinos if he’s saved up for it?

“We managed a fortnight in Greece and even then we’re still paying off the credit card. Meanwhile this bastard’s weighing up white sand beaches like he’s Dua Lipa on honeymoon.

“There seems something indefinably unfair about this. And like any Briton faced with injustice they struggle to understand it makes me want to vote far-right, except a brief conversation over a mug of tea shows he’s already got there first too.”

Hayes said: “They seemed like a nice couple, so when we got talking I told them how swimming with whales and Anahulu Cave knocked spots off sailing in a dhoni around the Maldives. You’ve seen one of those Indian Ocean islands, you’ve seen them all.

“They seemed unnaturally interested, given it’s out of their budget. Kept me chatting for ages. I had to reflect that in the final bill.”

Nostrils

It’s a sobering moment: you’d gone in for your normal cut when suddenly the clippers are right in your face. As they angle in for your nose you wonder if your barber is insane or if you’ve grown a Hitler moustache without noticing. But no, you just have hairy nostrils now. Like someone’s dad.

Inner ears

Your actual ears, treated like they’re a patch of weeds and he’s wielding the strimmer? Surely not. But when you see the sheer amount of hair that’s flying out all doubt is eliminated. And when he tells you he’ll have to charge extra for the wear and tear on his tools caused by your wire-like ear hair, even less.

Eyebrows

You’ve never paid any attention to your eyebrows, because you’re not a woman. But in response to his question, suddenly you notice they’re full of wild, crackly hair poking out in every direction, some five times longer than their neighbour and vivid white. You signal him to go ahead and another piece of your youth falls away.

The patch above your buttock cleft

Barbers give directions: lift your head up, turn to the left, close your eyes. When he tells you to get on all fours you’re surprised but obey automatically. And when he begins to tidy the area above your Dagenham smile, he assures you it’s perfectly normal for a man of your years and will make you feel special.

Pubes

Now he’s down there, they have gotten unpleasantly unruly and now seem to grow about halfway up the member, like a hog’s pizzle. He’s perfectly professional about it and the conversation about whether Sunderland will fall victim to second-season syndrome continues without pause.

30-year-old Jack Browne is proud of the fact that he eschews modern fads such as hentai and piss play in favour of traditional hardcore pornography featuring threesomes, large breasts and blowjobs.

Browne said: “Call me an old-fashioned country mouse, but I’ve no time for these newfangled trends. No niche searches, no hole-in-the-wall or BDSM for me. 

“I just like honest-to-goodness highly unrealistic sexual encounters I can have a good wank over, like my father and his father before him. I assume. I’ve never asked.

“At the end of a hard day, give me some girl-on-girl, a few cheerleaders, a bit of ejaculating on a lady’s face – I’m no pervert. I’m always satisfied with wholesome family fare. Well, not family members. Unless it’s a hot stepsister scenario, which I also enjoy.

“You can keep your weirdo stuff, I’ll carry on wanking to the classics, thanks. I’m basically a monk like that. A housewife who’s ordered a pizza and can’t pay? You can’t go wrong with that.

“If you’ll excuse me, I’m off to bed with a mug of cocoa and a classic movie. Featuring Angela White.”

Guessing their age

Women are coy about their age, so a complimentary guess is one that’s way too low but not impossible. Try 12 years. And don’t try to be Sherlock Holmes by noting details like her uniformly consistent hair colour and basing a clever guess on that. Really this is just a process of feigning disbelief as she says ‘no’ to your too-low guesses. If you guess her age correctly first time you may find yourself chatting to the wall.

Guessing how many sexual partners they’ve had

Probably best played after a large number of drinks. If you guess high you’re basically calling her a top-drawer slag or a prostitute, and too low sounds like an unflattering assessment of her looks. Guessing ‘seven’ is pretty uncontroversial, even if you don’t believe it for a second, but she may still take umbrage for some reason. Frankly if you’ve initiated this game with a high chance of offence, whatever number you pick won’t be notched up by one tomorrow.

Guessing their dress size

If you’re feeling full of Dutch courage try this. If you don’t guess two sizes below what your actual assumption is, you’re in deep f**king trouble. Never say a number ending in a teen, and if you have to for the sake of basic realism, remember no woman in the UK is larger than a 14. Arguably it’s an unwise subject for a guessing game, but it’s not like you asked her her weight. That would have been rude.

Guessing their nickname at school

Even if they didn’t have a proper nickname, imagining what it would have been is fun, assuming you don’t immediately put your foot in it and suggest ‘ginger minger’. It’s also likely their nickname was based on a physical trait they hated, so don’t say ‘Concorde’ even if it was obviously that. Keep the guesses flattering, because they can guess your nickname as revenge. ‘Specky Bender’ is hurtful, especially if that was your actual nickname until the age of 16.

Guessing the kinkiest place they’ve had sex

Again, this has the potential to be taken as an insult, because what’s daring or kinky to you might be downright disgusting to her. So don’t say: against a pub wheelie bin, in a public toilet or in her parents’ bed when they were downstairs watching The Voice. It’s a fine line between being an entertaining conversationalist and a grubby pervert.

Guessing where they’ll be sleeping tonight

This is pretty obviously trying your luck, so you’d better be sure you’re really hitting it off with her. Unfortunately after being subjected to your guessing game, the correct answer is likely to be ‘Not with you’.

Lingerie

Are you Baudelaire? Or any other 19th century French poet? No? When you didn’t even pass GCSE French, refrain from calling your girlfriend’s £3 polyester Primark thong her ‘lingerie’. She’s a client services advisor, not a courtesan.

Pants or panties

As an Americanism ‘panties’ can sound vaguely exotic, yet ‘pants’ brings back memories of Frank Skinner dancing in Y-fronts and no one can get aroused after that. ‘Pants’ also being British slang for something crap also doesn’t augur well for your sexual performance.

Undies

Sounds like something your mum might say when inquiring as to the contents of your laundry basket. Too cosy for sexy talk, unless you’re into that and frankly you shouldn’t be.

Drawers

Feels like something a lady would wear for churning butter or that a man would store a collection of screwdrivers in. No man has ever successfully seduced a woman by inviting her to ‘get her drawers off’. Maybe once, in Burnley.

Knickers

Doesn’t exactly get the heart racing. ‘Get those knickers off,’ sounds like you’re rehearsing a 70s sex comedy. It’s a technical term, and one covering a multitude. Like your wife’s large cotton briefs.

Bloomers

The sort of item one would sport while operating a printing press or riding a bicycle side-saddle. Went out of fashion in 1912. No matter how big a lady’s M&S pants are, they’re not really bloomers.

Unmentionables

Downright Victorian and founded in the a belief that a lady should not possess genitalia. Indeed, in this philosophy there’s nothing connecting her upper and lower halves. It is all simply unmentionable, like the prospect of her having the right to vote.

Charlie Phelps, aged 33, had only called in at Me Time, the village’s emporium of erotic goods, for lube but admitted she had watched a film with Paul Mescal in the previous evening and that it was still on her mind.

She said: “Thinking about it, I was already in the mood to rub one out. As a result I made a number of very poor purchasing decisions.

“Hot-headed and lustful, I grabbed what made me tingle in that particular moment, not what I actually needed for a satisfactory masturbation routine over the coming weeks.

“I was being guided by my red-blooded thirst for satisfaction, completely unable to make a calm assessment of the power, size, and wipe-clean properties of the merchandise.

“Three dildos? A rainbow of butt-plugs? Where on earth did I think I was going to put them all?

“I’d only called in for lube. I spent about 15 times what I’d intended. Still it is an independent shop and I believe they’re very ethical.”