I think it is safe to say that Durex Deluxe condoms are the rubbers Alan Sugar would use if he got sick of his wife and wanted to pound some floozy in a casino toilet. The Deluxe is marketed as the Rolls-Royce of protection and it’s hard to argue with that description. Durex have obviously put in the extra man hours to make their new classier contraception stand out from the crowd. Every aspect of design seems to have been treated with a bit more care than your bog standard, behind-the-bike-shed Johnny. A curved cream box and silver lettering add a touch of sophistication, while the individual contact lens-esque containers made me feel like James Bond using an awesome new sex gadget. But is it worth the extra cash?
As I hurriedly peeled back the layer of protective wrapping I was struck by how much care had been put into each condom. A super thin disc of latex rests in its own little, space-age pod. Then I realised I had an erection and stopped caring. That’s the fundamental problem with high end condoms; when you’re faced with a expectant girl, lying on her back and spreading her legs for you, neither of you give a shit about the packaging. Also I didn’t quite understand why Durex had made the special effort of ensuring the Deluxe is “crystal clear.” It’s an impressive feat of engineering and all, but at the end of the day, a dick covered in plastic is a dick covered in plastic. You’re still going to look pretty stupid whether it’s transparent or bright green... Well I do anyway. If that’s what the extra pennies went on then I wouldn’t have bothered. Luckily there is more to the Deluxe than a crystal clear view of my penis.
It’s always worth considering that the best condom is the one you can’t feel. Unsurprisingly having your knob in a balloon can somewhat distract from the romance of sexual intercourse and so, with its price already thrown into question, all the fanciness of the Deluxe would count for nothing if it felt like you’d shoved your bell end into a rubber glove. Thankfully, for men the world over, it doesn’t. The Deluxe is super thin and almost feels as though you’re not wearing anything at all, which as far as I’m concerned is ideal.What I especially liked about the Deluxe is its simplicity. It doesn’t offer any of the gimmicky rubbish that some brands get carried away with. Tingling lubricants, lumps and bumps are all well and good in moderation but sometimes there’s so much going on that sex becomes less about your partner and more about humping a lumpy sack of lube. What the Deluxe offers is something far better. You can actually feel yourself inside whoever you’re sleeping with. It allows you to forget about protection and just enjoy having sex.
The Deluxe is undoubtedly the best condom I’ve used, but at two quid a shag, it’s expensive. If I was rich I would stock up. However, if like me, you aren’t Baron Sugar then you’ll have to weigh up whether it’s worth the extra cash or not. It’s definitely worth trying.
Wednesday, 28 July 2010
Saturday, 17 July 2010
The Deep End
Having now visited the job centre on several occasions the novelty of ‘the dole’ has faded. If standing in the same cue as withered, emphysema ridden, old men, waiting for hand outs doesn’t encourage you to make something of yourself then I’m not sure anything will. Why all unemployed people seem to spend their time hacking up their lungs remains a mystery but I’ve developed a cough already.
I feel a fresh ambition to become rich and successful. Then I can afford to buy the next series of The Wire on DVD or, depending on salary, blu ray. It seems that in this difficult financial climate work can be very hard to come by and so as a result the old CV needs a bit of beefing up. I have been volunteering to do fundraising for charities and such, but am consistently struck by pangs of guilt over the selfish nature of my efforts. As a fairly cynical person I would hate to put myself in that same bracket as Bono and Bob Geldolf who, despite being incredibly charitable with their time and money undermine any good will I have for them with their self-righteous, smug git facial expression and overly sincere visits to poor African villages. It’s as though they feel they have the insight and right to insist that normal people give their money away.
“Give us your fucking money!”
No thanks Bob, I’m not as rich as you and I want to spend the little money I earn (have given to me by the government) on stupid things like Crunch Corners and Tesco’s Chicken Wraps.
So I feel a moral obligation to leave any charitably activities I undertake off my CV. That way I’m not directly benefiting from something that I ought to do for good will. Then again I really want an HD telly and a Ferrari; so I should probably just shut up, accept Bono is a better person than I am and say that I’ve raised four million pounds for cancer research on my CV. It does seem a little hypocritical of me to criticise, whilst living off Job Seekers Allowance....
Anyway, Last night was grad ball, which is probably where today’s bitterness stems from. I am, as usual, hanging. A hangover has the power to surgically remove your optimism gland and leave you an angry lobotomised bastard. Today I’m that bastard. It would just be a repeat of several of my earlier entries to describe the events of last night so I’ll leave you to imagine, but you can safely assume that a large amount of time was spent wildly chanting football songs and cueing for drinks. The ball made leaving seem university much more real than it had been previously. Amid the numerous domestics and sickages I took time to soak up the atmosphere one last time, before passing out on a wooden floor.
Inevitably I woke up with a stiff neck and speaking of stiff; (I’m sorry, couldn’t resist) I have recently been given the opportunity to review a new range of condoms. Shockingly there’s a shortage of sexually active heterosexual men who keep online diaries about their feelings and so I have been given the task of fucking my way through 5 packets of Durex... result! It is now my, awesome sex mission to woo a lady and fill her with so many different types of latex that she develops an allergy. Rather optimistically, the friend who gave me this opportunity included several XL rubbers in her parcel. I fear that may be like slipping a cocktail sausage in a sock.
PS. Sorry Potty Mouth....... “You have to forgive me!!!”
I feel a fresh ambition to become rich and successful. Then I can afford to buy the next series of The Wire on DVD or, depending on salary, blu ray. It seems that in this difficult financial climate work can be very hard to come by and so as a result the old CV needs a bit of beefing up. I have been volunteering to do fundraising for charities and such, but am consistently struck by pangs of guilt over the selfish nature of my efforts. As a fairly cynical person I would hate to put myself in that same bracket as Bono and Bob Geldolf who, despite being incredibly charitable with their time and money undermine any good will I have for them with their self-righteous, smug git facial expression and overly sincere visits to poor African villages. It’s as though they feel they have the insight and right to insist that normal people give their money away.
“Give us your fucking money!”
No thanks Bob, I’m not as rich as you and I want to spend the little money I earn (have given to me by the government) on stupid things like Crunch Corners and Tesco’s Chicken Wraps.
So I feel a moral obligation to leave any charitably activities I undertake off my CV. That way I’m not directly benefiting from something that I ought to do for good will. Then again I really want an HD telly and a Ferrari; so I should probably just shut up, accept Bono is a better person than I am and say that I’ve raised four million pounds for cancer research on my CV. It does seem a little hypocritical of me to criticise, whilst living off Job Seekers Allowance....
Anyway, Last night was grad ball, which is probably where today’s bitterness stems from. I am, as usual, hanging. A hangover has the power to surgically remove your optimism gland and leave you an angry lobotomised bastard. Today I’m that bastard. It would just be a repeat of several of my earlier entries to describe the events of last night so I’ll leave you to imagine, but you can safely assume that a large amount of time was spent wildly chanting football songs and cueing for drinks. The ball made leaving seem university much more real than it had been previously. Amid the numerous domestics and sickages I took time to soak up the atmosphere one last time, before passing out on a wooden floor.
Inevitably I woke up with a stiff neck and speaking of stiff; (I’m sorry, couldn’t resist) I have recently been given the opportunity to review a new range of condoms. Shockingly there’s a shortage of sexually active heterosexual men who keep online diaries about their feelings and so I have been given the task of fucking my way through 5 packets of Durex... result! It is now my, awesome sex mission to woo a lady and fill her with so many different types of latex that she develops an allergy. Rather optimistically, the friend who gave me this opportunity included several XL rubbers in her parcel. I fear that may be like slipping a cocktail sausage in a sock.
PS. Sorry Potty Mouth....... “You have to forgive me!!!”
Tuesday, 13 July 2010
Born For It
OK OK I’m sorry. I’ve been a little distracted of late and for a number of reasons Moist has taken a back seat. If you can find it in your hearts to forgive me and continue reading I will try to explain why I’ve been such a terrible non blogging bastard.
Moist‘s Movements
Leaving university is a rather strange process. You spend the whole last term cursing the fact that you have exams and then once their over you pack your bags and fuck off home. That’s if you’re most people. I took an entirely less sensible approach. Boozing was rather high on my list of priorities, as were BBQ’s and watching the football. Somewhere further down the list, below sitting outside in the rain smoking, was revision. It certainly made my term exciting and I don’t think I could have partied any harder without causing a severe failure in either my exams or internal organs. This rather disproportionate focus on socialising was reflected in my last set of results. However, being the super genius that I am I still managed to get a 2.1 and have now returned home joining the millions of other graduates in search of jobs this summer.
It said on the news the other day that there are 60 graduates for every post- grad position in Britain. It’s a daunting statistic for anyone but its worse if you can’t decide what you want to do, and worse still if you’d rather sit at home and eat an eight pack of twister lollies. Having strolled round the job centre perusing the pamphlets it became clear that my skill set is not particularly suited to many jobs.
The saying goes that you can be a Jack of all trades and a master of none, now I’m quite bad at a lot of things; spelling for example, so I’m definitely not Jack. On the other hand I can’t really think of anything that I’m a master of. Which I think, makes me a ....Moist of some trades?
Sensing that there weren’t many jobs available for a Moist of some trades during a recession I decided to get my act together, take a step back and make a list of things to do with the aim of becoming a master of ... a trade.
Things to do list
. Get a job
. Pass my driving test
. Get married
. get a place to live
. watch The Wire
It took me a day or two of staring, gormless at my list before I realized that all of the goals are linked to one another. If I pass my driving test I will be able to drive further to different jobs becoming more employable in the process. Once I have a job then I will be able to earn money to get a place to live. Once I have a place to live I’ll be able to woo ladies more effectively and then once I’m married I will have someone to watch The Wire with.
So with the plan firmly established and another driving test booked all I needed to do now decide on a career path.
I successfully attempted to bake my first cake the other day. It was an achievement that led me to believe I was almost definitely born to bake. My wild assumption was supported by the discovery that I had a great grandfather who baked. I really like the idea of keeping family traditions going and baking is clearly a skill that has been passed down to me genetically because those who ate my feathery soft Victoria sponge unfailingly declared it to be the “single greatest moment of taste sensation” they had ever experienced. Well sort of. My mum sort of choked it down with a grin on her face and said “well done.” whilst trying not to cough it back up. If I’m going to I follow in my families footsteps then I really have to be a builder. For centuries Moist’s on my dad’s side have been building houses, offices, schools and shit. Maybe I was born to build? Unfortunately after a brief experiment with a patio it became apparent that I lack the practical skills, hand eye coordination and such to hammer nails or cut wood in a straight line. Another disadvantage I have is that I’m far too muscular to be a builder. As we all know builders need to be scrawny and thin, and that’s just not me...I’m pretty sure a load of my family met a sticky ends so perhaps it’s better if I start making my own footsteps instead of stepping into theirs.
I was just about running out of hope for a job when I found the perfect occupation. It turns out I was born for benefits. Job seekers allowance is ideal. It’s like a challenge to see how long I can procrastinate for and I really am a master of procrastination. I decided that I could become a master of the dole. So today I officially started claiming job seekers and from now on all I have to do is look into getting a job and the government pays me, Suckers! It’s freed up so much time that I have been able to watch two seasons of The Wire. That’s one target crossed off the Things to do list.
Actually screw Job seekers I want to go to Baltimore and become an undercover cop.
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