Six ways to look a dick in a… polo shirt

THE polo shirt is an arsehole’s garment suitable only for liars, thieves and those trying to fool the world into thinking they’re wearing a shirt. Wear it like this: 

With jeans

You’ll be quite the twat about town as you step out in jeans and a polo shirt; not a T-shirt, the natural companion to denim, but the stunted hybrid of forced breeding between T-shirt and proper shirt, a cotton mutant that should never have been born and begs to die.

Ideal for: knobhead pubs.

With chinos

Just look at the epitome of sartorial cowardice. Able to commit to neither casual clothes or a suit you sit on the fucking fence, trying to be everything to everyone and fitting in nowhere. The suit people think you weak. The casuals think you’re a square.

Ideal for: the Lib Dem party conference.

With shorts

What even are you at this point? Who are you pretending to be? The preppy guy in a teenage love triangle who gets dumped? Are you trying to act like that little slit and those three shitty buttons provide much needed ventilation for your sweaty neck?

Ideal for: acting the prick at Wimbledon.

With a jumper

Now we’re in full-on gaslighting territory. You’re actually doing this. You’re actually trying to brazen it out that you’re wearing a shirt. It’s sickening. Everyone knows you’re lying. They don’t say it to be polite, but sure as fuck they’re saying it behind your back.

Ideal for: a magic act where you pull off a jumper and reveal to an amazed audience that you’re actually in a polo shirt.

With a suit

Come on. Be serious. You go to the effort of putting a suit on, then wear a pretend shirt underneath? And what, trainers with it? Are there shorts under the suit? Are you ready for sudden sport at literally any time?

Ideal for: anyone who’s so hot nobody asks difficult questions.

With tapered polo jeans, knee-high polo boots and a polo helmet

The shirt actually looks fine when it’s with the rest of the kit. You just look like a bellend because you’re playing polo.

Ideal for: being so incredibly posh you play polo.

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How to sabotage your own orgasm

FOR women, having an orgasm is like trying to get a fly out of a window: for all the smacking and shouting you may still be defeated even if the window’s wide fucking open.

Even if he bothers with foreplay, your mental image of the hot new teacher at your kids’ primary is fresh in your mind and your orgasm seems inevitable, there remain a multitude of effort-free ways to bugger it up on the final straight.

Let your imagination take over

The imagination is a powerful tool on the route to orgasm, second only to the vibrator. But, unlike the vibrator, the imagination is an over-complicated tool with too many settings and the instruction manual was lost long ago.

You begin with conviction, surging to the heights by picturing yourself strapped to the wall of a sex dungeon being boned by… David Tennant? No wait, the kids were watching Harry Potter at the weekend, that’s creepy. Chris Hemsworth? Too obvious. Idris Elba? You’ve used him too often, you know all his moves by heart. Who’s the guy from Creed? Too late. Your husband’s done.

Don’t let your imagination take over

More fatal than imagining being someone or somewhere else is reality. The least conducive stimulant is being in the actual moment: face buried in the sweat-stenched pillow, piglike grunts from behind, wishfully thinking you may make enough noise to wake the children. Or worse, glancing down between your legs to your partner’s thinning hair.

Any unwelcome flash of the world as it is and suddenly your dead cert orgasm’s receding into the distance without even the tried-and-tested image of Don Draper in leather chaps able to turn things around before your boyfriend’s tongue tires.

Get too involved

As soon as you start trying to micromanage the situation, all hope is lost. Yes, it would be better if he moved a bit faster here, circled a bit lower down there, and has he forgotten your nipples exist, maybe a quick reminder?

Should you just take the initiative and reach a hand round yourself? Is he open to requests to do that thing you liked last time? Wait, what’s that ringing sound? The death knell of your orgasm, you meddling twat.

Doubt yourself

Like killing a fairy by not believing in it, you’ve got to put yourself out there and dare to believe in the existence of your climax for it to be real. Once you let doubt creep in you’re just wasting his time and yours, and yes you should feel guilty. He still seems so hopeful and committed, it’s tragic.

And once the thought of faking it creeps in, there’s no turning back. Like Ciro Immobile heading goalward, once you’re gearing up to fling yourself to the ground screaming your eyes are very much off the ball and your focus is entirely on planning your big performance.

Announce it

Sometimes everything comes together and you’re blown away by how in sync your body and mind are. You’re convinced it’s a done deal. But it ain’t over until the lady-who-wants-to-lose-two-stone screams.

Like small children in a restaurant, orgasms pick the worst possible moment to remind you who’s really in control. Never reassure your exhausted partner he can soon stand down in triumph. Those two fatal words: ‘I’m coming’ often herald the beginning of the end: off your capricious orgasm fucks, just when you thought you had it down.