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80 per cent of men are twats

THE majority of men are either meatheads or vain self-absorbed idiots, it has emerged.

Researchers at the Institute for Studies found over three-quarters of adult males were very hard to like.

Professor Henry Brubaker said: “Socialising with young men, we found that they either wanted to show off about their material possessions, punch you in the face for no reason, or some senseless combination of the two.

“It’s maybe not their fault, rather they are the hapless victims of a culture that teaches them to value steroids, toiletries and morally vacuous sales jobs rather than channeling their unblinkered self-belief into something vaguely worthwhile.”

Professor Brubaker blamed The Apprentice, corporate nightclubs and footballers for making the average man as big a twat as the person who 30 years ago would have been considered the biggest dickhead in their school.

He said: “Apparently the new type of grooming-obsessed young single male is categorised as a ‘yummie’.

“This is vile, nauseating marketing bullshit, but the fact that something so contrived can find its way into national newspapers demonstrates the extent of the society’s sickness.”

23-year-old Tom Logan said: “I’m torn between instinctive interests in art and nature, and a mainstream culture that tells me to get rich, love nothing and ‘nail loads of fanny’.

“I think I’m going to keep buying loads of pec-revealing designer t-shirts until the point of me becomes clear.”

Chris Martin's meat dream

AND I think we both know this is the end.

Your eyes, previously so full of life and laughter, are now dull, defeated and sunken – the way I always imagined they might have looked inside Kevin Spacey’s box at the end of Se7en.

And you ask me, after all that we’ve been through, do I still believe in magic? Oh, yes I do! Because what else could explain your remarkable meat hat?

How, if magic did not exist, could two minutes ago your hair and head have been that of a normal woman’s, but now from nowhere a generous fistful of steak tartare has appeared there, topped with a raw egg whose yolk is all yellow, yes, like the stars.

I ask you how you’ve done this. Was it from LK Bennet or perhaps River Island? But you now seem more upset than ever, your mouth opens wide and you cry like your heart is slashed. But inside your mouth is an entire black pudding supper, every tear rolling down your cheek, a 8lb joint of gammon. What witchcraft is this?

I’m in a daze, I don’t know what’s real and what’s not. The room spins, I hear ringing in my ears and everything seems so far away. I stagger to the door, lost, broken, severely anaemic.

I get on my Segway and ride ’til my knuckles bleed and I start to get seasick, all the way to my best friend Madonna’s house. She offers me a table upon which I can perform ashtanga yoda to soothe my aching soul. I take the snooker, she takes the fooseball. I ask her what a man’s to do. No doubt her words to me are wise, but though her lips move, I cannot hear her voice. She is doing the crab, exposing each of her fascinating chakras. But her seven centres of spiritual power have been replaced with huge beefburgers. Mesmerised, I look closer and see that someone, probably a health professional, has drawn big purple arrows pointing to them, each one is surrounded with exclamation marks like halos of pure chagrin.

And if you were to ask me, after all that we’ve been through.

Do I still believe in magic? Oh yes, yes I do.

Because I’ve been to B & Q. And I bought this barbecue.

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