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The myth of going out on the pull vs. the punishingly grim reality

GOING out on the pull is a myth created by lads’ magazines. Here’s what really happens when you try to find a stranger to have sex with:

MYTH: You’ll look across a dance floor full of prospects, each hottie more enticing than the last.
REALITY: Getting turned away from the club, then visiting a grim pub full of aged locals, each more sullen and depressing than the last.

MYTH: You’ll catch the eye of someone attractive across the room, and watch them realise they can’t tear themselves away from your magnetic gaze.
REALITY: Staring into a watery pint, hypnotised by the knowledge that it cost £6.50 yet has the taste and appeal of stale piss.

MYTH: Striking up a scintillating chat with a 10 which crackles with sexual tension.
REALITY: Awkwardly trying to compliment someone who can’t hear you over the shit music, before settling on a thumbs-up as they back away in disgust.

MYTH: An enchanting walk home with your soon-to-be conquest, whispering sweet nothings to one another under the moonlit sky.
REALITY: An exercise in herding cats as you try to regroup your disparate gang of mates, before eventually throwing everyone into an Uber that they swear they’ll pay you back for (they won’t).

MYTH: Hours of passionate lovemaking, fulfilling desires you never even knew you had.
REALITY: Spending an hour watching the late-night shopping channel, before drifting off on the sofa filled with crisps and self-loathing.

MYTH: Waking up and scratching another notch in your bedpost. Quite the number you’ve got there.
REALITY: Waking up with a sore head and the need to puke. Protect your pride by telling yourself there was nobody worth pulling, even though you’d have shagged a bollard given half the chance.

Light-up trainers, and other stupid status symbols from your childhood

THE social hierarchy of your school days was insanely dumb. If you didn’t have any of these items you were at the bottom of the heap.

Rub-on tattoos

Nothing commanded respect among a group of eight-year-olds quite like turning up with a sleeve tattoo made entirely of flakey cartoon dinosaur transfers and the odd bit of temporary Transformers ink. The only thing more tragic than blowing all your pocket money on this status symbol was that they washed away come bath time.

Light-up trainers

The height of sophistication for any child under 10. If you rocked up to the playground in a pair of runners illuminated by flickering LEDs, jaws would hit the rubberised safety floor. You’d be treated like a god until you shorted them out by stepping in a puddle, then it was back to being the runt of the playground.

Coca-Cola pencil case

This beauty combined every child’s love of needlessly hoarding pencil sharpenings with drinks that cause tooth decay. When you slammed this pencil case onto your desk in maths class everyone knew you were the shit, even the teachers. All those cucks had were puny tins that couldn’t even house a 30cm shatterproof ruler. Pathetic.

Candy jewellery

Your £1 a week pocket money didn’t stretch to real jewellery, but it could afford necklaces and bracelets made out of flavourless sugary pellets. Candy was the real currency of the schoolyard anyway, so when you turned up decked out in your sweet shop bling you essentially owned the place. Try not to think about how that day was the highlight of your life.

Fountain pens

When your class made the leap from pencils to pens, there’d always be a couple of pretentious pricks who would turn up wielding top-of-the-range fountain pens. These kids would briefly be envied by all, until they accidentally bit into one of their refill cartridges, swallowed a load of ink, and had to spend the afternoon with the school nurse. Serves them right.

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