Text messaging is useful for two things: arranging where to meet your friends, and keeping in touch with people that you can’t be bothered to actually talk to. 

    Public toilets are an arena in which you feel like a Man or a Mouse – depending on how much alcohol you’ve had to drink.  The first decision that must be made is whether to use the urinal, or the cubicle.  The former takes a Man, the latter, a Mouse. 

The Man will invariably sigh, glance down to aim, then look straight ahead.  A pale enamel square will be studied as intently as a rabid dog if another Man is standing by the same spot.  The Mouse may feel a loss of pride for having opted for the cubicle, and will compensate for such with a token nose-blowing.  This lets the Men outside know that he is there for the tissue, not the privacy.

First-class public toilets are generally reserved for the disabled and, luckily, are almost always free.  You get cushioned seats, a full roll of toilet paper and an extra foot of leg space.  There’s even a red chord to pull if you get stuck.

Public toilets are the only places outside of pornography where it is perfectly legal for large groups of men to handle their genitals in front of one another. 

Public transport falls into the following categories: planes, buses and taxis.  Trains are public, but only occasionally used for transport.  The rest of the time they are an excuse to eye-ball electronic notice boards and make irate phone calls to loved ones you suddenly feel you may never see again.

    It could be argued that, in our cynical consumer age, newspapers are one of the few remaining items that represent ‘value for money’.  The problem is that you only ever read about ten pence’s worth of the sixty-five you had to lay-out in the first place.  If you’re clever and socially minded, you read your paper from front to back.  If you’re a man it’s the other way round.

Most people prefer the tabloids because there’s more about celebrities, less about Venezuela and the puns are funnier – although walking around campus, a copy of The Guardian does more to enhance your reputation for left-wing intellectualism then The Daily Sport. 

           
     They say that anyone who claims not to masturbate is a liar.  They also say that anyone who chooses to write a column about masturbation is an idiot.

As with most physical acts, when women masturbates they conjure an erotic, sensual aesthetic in which human beings seems at one with a deeper spiritual self.  When men masturbate they can only ever look like one thing, and that thing is a monkey.

For many of this current generation of men, masturbation began roughly at 11 o clock on a Friday night with ‘Eurotrash’ on Channel Four.  This worked out fine as long as the programme focused on bare-breasted Swedish models.  It was when the action turned without warning to a naked German man pretending to be a dog that the enterprise collapsed a little.  A deliberate prank on 13-year olds everywhere?

           
It was once thought that masturbation would turn us mad or sexually deranged.  We now know that, if anything, it ensures the opposite.  The best time to masturbate is the same as the best time to have a cigarette: when you realise that you haven’t had one for a while, and no one is around to disapprove.