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Towel Time Featuring Katy Perry, Rihanna and Surprise Guests (Probably)!

Showering is important. It's something you must do because if you don't you make my bus rides unbearable. Sure, sometimes you get soap in your eyes or you start to masturbate before realising the internet has killed your imagination, but that's not important, what is important is the following question: what do you do with a towel when you get out of the shower? Next question: why do you do that? No, shut up, I'll tell you why.

Style: Two-Towel Wraparound

A scene from the Chinese adaptation of Ghost.

What It Means: XX (not XXX or xXx)

I'm not gonna lie to you, and if you didn't already know I'm sorry you found out like this, but I think you may have a vagina. The good news is that if you do have a vagina and use this style you're biologically fine, the bad news is you're boring and poor. Yes, the two-towel wrap technique, while functional, screams "I cannot afford three towels". Your greedy, double-towelled ways clearly only halted by the financial ball and chain that is life in general - if you could you'd have ten towels. It is this deep psychological scar that causes you to wrap the towel tightly around your body as you are reminded of all those freezing-cold winters during your childhood that were spent toiling on potato farms (in past lives obviously). The towel around your head serves as a subconscious tinfoil hat as you desperately try to prevent your neuroses from being broadcast to every person for miles. You feel most at home in a Gulag. 

Sidenote: If you're a guy and you utilise this approach to drying, then you're simply outrageous - you go, girl!

Style: Bathrobe and Towel

"I own four Walt Disney heads and counting."

What It Means: You Shit The Ritz

Whoa! Who ordered the pizza with a marble crust and extra ivory? It must've been this woman! OK, so here we have a bathrobe and towel combo, which is the classiest thing since I created a gentlemen boxer in Fight Night Round 2 on the PS2 and named him Classius Clay. This is a person who hunts peasants, not pheasants. After finishing showering in their ivory tower your average bathrobe and towel user will then go on to drink a powershake made from the bodies of animals that saved a human from death by calling an ambulance. Their choice of dress isn't for the benefit of anybody else, it's simply a by-product of being born into a family so rich that when they're playing Monopoly and the designated banker goes for a piss they don't even steal money from the box. It's not a world you or I can relate to, and although you could purchase a bathrobe and try to capture this feeling, it would be as sad and hollow as dressing your pillow to look like your most recent obsession.

That's not what I wanted from a Google Image Search of 'Katy Pillow'.

Style: Wraparound

If my penis isn't magic then theirs aren't either.

What It Means: Jealous?

You might think that the simple waist-high wraparound is the male equivalent of the female two-towel system, but that's why you have a job and friends and I'm a high-flying, jet-setting Towel Psychologist. No, the male wraparound is all about the subject in question proudly displaying their abs, inviting the world to just try and grate cheese on those bad boys. The problem here is perception, primarily the warped perception held by most men that their stomach looks like a fleshy set of speedbumps when really they look more like a bag of cotton that somebody vomited into. This unwarranted confidence can be seen in virtually every other aspect of their life, including exaggerated claims of being able to piss higher than a basketball player and the assumption that you would know it was them when they send you a text from a new phone that simply reads "hey, got a new number". The typical wraparound adopter will never be able to understand opinions that aren't echoes of their own, and this is why it is impossible to save them from their own ignorance by showing them the light of other methods of drying. You can look at their abs and validate them, or ignore their torso altogether and let them think your distant stare stems from your embarrassment of that shit-box you call a stomach. It's best to simply leave room. 

Style: Cape Towel

This kid wants a vasectomy for Christmas.

What It Means: They Fucked Your Girlfriend

Holy shit! Just when you thought there was no right way to wear a towel here comes this kid with an illustration of how to not look like a moist twat after rubbing coconut-scented shit into your face for ten minutes. Now don't let the beach throw you; this kid is actually in his house, it's just that when wearing a towel as a cape all photos come out looking like this - it's like The Ring but dryer. If you're still in any doubt then let me convert you completely and address any doubts head-on. 

1. I don't take clothes into the bathroom with me.

You do now, asshole. Just take a pair of underwear in there with you then put them on before coming out of your bathroom looking like the chopper assault from Apocalypse Now in human form.

2. I'm not going to do that.

Tough customer? Well in truth taking in underwear for the post-shower dash to your bedroom was only for your prudish benefit, in all honesty this is best performed completely naked. If you wanna come out dick/tits swinging then I salute you. 

3. I live with other people.

Would those people mind if you put on a Broadway production-level performance of Les Misérables in the house? Art is art. 

4. Does it really matter?

I wish I had a class to kick you out of, but if you must know, yes it matters. We can learn a lot from seeing other people at their most vulnerable, and people seeing you exit a bathroom looking like Kal-El escaping Krypton on a rainy day will make them think twice before putting peanuts in your socks or challenging you to a knife fight - I don't know, I just know it's better if people fear you. 

Well I hope I've taught you all something and that you all keep these lessons in mind for the future. Anyway, I think that's all the major ways to utilise towels covered...

Get the fuck outta here, lady.

E3 2011

Do you feel that? Can you sense those Japanese programmers shitting their Japanese underwear at the thought of being made to give a speech to an audience and pretend that their game isn't a derivative turd with Kinect-compatibility forced upon it? Yes, it's E3 2011, and I'm giddy just thinking about all of the horrible presentations to come as a room full of nerds watch on with all the impassive detachment of a frog. In honour of this upcoming event here are a few of my favourite awkward E3 moments! 

They don't learn!

Explosions Exploding

So, you're a fan of terrible TV. Worry not! There are lots of terrible things, like agnosticism and getting caught learning to play an instrument, but here's the catch: I can make your TV show better. You may think that anybody can do this simply by hiring new writers or better actors, and you'd be right, but I'm going to work within self-imposed constraints and use my knowledge to improve three shows by at least 37% without simply killing every character or firing every writer. Now read on as I kick mediocrity in the dick.

The Show: How I Met Your Mother

"We found a wallet in here and we're not giving it back!"

The Problem: I've Seen Friends

Comparing How I Met Your Mother (or HIMYM, which is dangerously close to HIMYN - just sayin') to Friends is lazy, and it is somewhat unfair since people don't like you making fun of their show, but the problem remains: I've seen Friends. I spent a good decade of my life seeing repeats of Friends on various channels, and whatever room there was in my heart for several whiny, over-privileged New-Yorkers was filled. This is hardly fair since Friends didn't invent the sitcom or New York (it did invent The Rachel and dancing in fountains) but that's my own experience, and it's why I can't invest in the show. Oh, and it's not funny. 

The Solution: Identity

If you haven't seen the film Identity then you should know that every character is a figment of a convicted murderer's mind. You should also know I just spoiled Identity for you. Just be glad I spoiled a shitty film in which the story is revealed to have taken place in somebody's mind instead of something you might've watched like Pan's Labyrinth or Jacob's Ladder. Anyway, upon adopting this direction the show becomes infinitely more interesting; stilted dialogue becomes the result of a fractured mind incapable of creating well-rounded individuals; the cardboard, too-clean New York is explained away as a reflection of all the family-friendly television our protagonist has consumed; the show gains an over-arching narrative that viewers can look for clues of in each episode. Basically, it's a lot more fun than playing 'guess the baby mama' with the female cast. Hey, maybe for the series finale they could send a camera crew out to a random viewer's house and tell them that it was their creation all along - that they're responsible for polluting the airwaves with the televisual equivalent of a dog breathing in your face. In all honesty, 'it was all a dream!' is tacky bullshit, but at least you'd blow that one person's mind, and that's one more than the real show will ever succeed in blowing.  

That same viewer's attempts to dream of Candy Land would prove unsuccessful.

The Show: Skins

This Facebook quiz says I'm just like the cunty one!

The Problem: They Have No Problems

I can only speak about series four and five of Skins since that's all I've seen, but even if it did start out great watching it is now like watching a viral video your mother sent you, and that's where I aim to improve. Skins is an example of a show written by older people pandering to kids in their mid-to-late teens by presenting their lives as fascinating, hedonistic and full of angst. It's no surprise that these people latch onto this show and act like it's a mirror of their drug-fuelled lives - they just want to be cool. The problem is that every character has a pretty decent life; they have food, clothes, a chance at an education and at least a couple of friends. They're also all annoying little assholes who create drama for themselves and then spend forty minutes wandering the streets screaming something like "IT'S FUCKED. IT'S ALL JUST FUCKED" as they spiral into all-out despair over the delay of their Amazon.co.uk delivery or whatever the fuck has happened that makes them discount the remaining sixty-to-eighty years of their life. 

The Solution: Jerry

Who's Jerry? This is Jerry:

Hi, Jerry!

OK, so maybe not that kid specifically, but Skins' next step is to cast and incorporate either a thalidomide or paraplegic. That is my only contribution, but it is most certainly an important one. By forcing the writers to add ol' Jerry into at least two-thirds of scenes I fucking dare the writers to try and write a story about any character getting dumped/losing their super-8 camera/being de-friended by Vice magazine on Facebook/having their parent not give them their undivided attention/being crushed by Dorothy upon her arrival/forgetting their sock puppet theatre rehearsal with a straight face whilst our stoic hero sits prominently in the foreground. Jerry instantly becomes a symbol of sanity, and should any two characters become hysterical with anger over which one of them gets to blow weed in a stray dog's face, then it's Jerry's time to shine as he calmly rolls on from the right side of the screen. Skins is forced to take a long, hard look at itself before deciding that maybe the problems of your average sixth-form student pale in comparison to those of pretty much anybody, and that there are people in this world who can accept and move on from whatever life throws at them without throwing a shit-fit that would make Jack Nicholson blush.

Just grow a pair of tits and move on.

The Show: Episodes

I'm sure 'Joey' will enjoy a renaissance on Blu-Ray.

The Problem: Matt LeBlanc Is Dead Inside

If you've read any of the dozen interviews with Matt LeBlanc during which he talked about waiting to accept just the right project after Friends then you'll already know the sadness I'm talking about. Here is a man still struggling to come to terms with the world's baffling disdain of the Lost In Space remake whilst at the same time trying to afford a pool for his pool-cleaning net. You can't really compliment his performance as a down-and-out actor when you know that between takes he's trying to persuade the government that he has nothing worth repossessing on his Motorola Razr. I mean really, the problem with the show is that it's not funny, but let's forget that and focus on poor Matt instead. 

The Solution: PayPal

It's not too late to return Joey to his late-90s glory. It's time for a grass-roots campaign that reaches around the world. I want people in China donating their hard-earned China dollars, I want Russians taking a break from raising children of steel and instead marching through the streets of Moscow to the tune of The Rembrandts 'I'll Be There For You'. Whatever your national stereotype, stop doing that and give Matt some money. Once we've raised enough money then it's time to hand over that money to Japanese scientists who will then create five highly realistic androids based on the likenesses of the cast of Friends which are then instilled with the five, fictitious personalities of that show. Upon completion of the Friends-bots our next step is to create a 1:1 scale replica of New York (like a much grander Synecdoche, New York) for Matt to live in where eventually the life, memories and sadness of Matt LeBlanc are replaced wholesale by the wacky hijinks of Joey Tribbiani, this fictional life eventually consuming him whole until nothing remains of his true self but half-remembered dreams of a cruel and distant land which shunned his genius. If I did have to think of a way to improve Episodes, I'd probably just add a talking koala called Donny. I don't know, it might be cool. 

Sting Makes Music For Lovers

The artist currently known as Sting is a virtuoso at anything he turns his hand towards. His talent is an established fact, his contribution to uniting genitals is immeasurable, but what a lot of people don't know about is the secret heartbreak hiding behind his lute; Sting, it turns out, is ugly as all fuck. 

Pictured here looking like a peanut with cancer.

The singer-songwriter is a fragile creature and to bruise its ego is akin to telling a bee that it's too fat to fly, thus removing any semblance of aerodynamics it once held, causing it to drop out of the sky and ruin middle-class breakfasts the whole world over. This is, however, the shocking truth that lies buried beneath decades of solid-gold pop songs such as "The Police", and "Missing You". So how can we as a people avert this crisis? The answer is simple: we show him love. The problem is that words can only go so far - eventually a boy will realise that the reason his platonic friend wants to remain 'just friends' is because of his potato-like appearance and eBay-bought nunchucks. The only solution is the physical act of love, and so I present to you the following...

Three Scenarios In Which You Might Have Sex With Sting

You see, you can single-handedly put an end to his crippling self-doubt, but I know that as things stand you don't really want to have sex with someone who, even at his best, only ever looked like a blonde pineapple. This leads me to the following scenarios which, should you ever find yourself in, copulation with Sting could be considered an option, or at the very least, 'taking one for the team'. 


1. The Post-Apocalypse

For whatever reason, the world has turned to dust and leather-clad biker gangs have seized control of whatever passes for currency in this dank future (probably buttons). You and your animal pal of choice roam through the wastelands, barely surviving on the meat of rats and contaminated water. Eventually you happen upon an outpost, almost a town, with gates constructed specifically to guard from the mutant chimps that instead of evolving into rational creatures capable of empathy and highly complex thought, instead evolved the ability to rip our cocks off and bury them in the dirt. You enter seeking shelter and after negotiating a room you decide to unwind at the bar. The days prior have taken their toll and you slump into your booth, not even raising your eyes to meet the waitress when ordering your potato vodka. Soon, however, you become aware of sound... It's a soothing sound, one not of these barren lands; a fusion of commercially viable soft-rock and a genre you wouldn't call jazz unless you were straining for credibility in a market that has rejected you. You try to pin it down but your mind is at a loss until, eventually, you turn your head and see it: a being of pure benevolence, his hair non-existent but his cranial stubble proudly declaring that if it were there, it would be awesome. Your eyes meet and you know instantly that it's Sting. Shocked, you sit back down, and as your mind races so does his set. It's a humble set, no requests or any of the hits (he wanted to try some new stuff which he'd hoped you'd like, but didn't really care if you did) and you're about to leave when you feel a hand on your shoulder. Your eyes meet once again with this glowing figure and you know in your heart that he wants a handjob at the very least. What are you to do? The world is in ruins, mankind is waning, all we can do is play as the Titanic sinks, so do you want to be the person who threw the violins overboard? No, my friend. You must fuck Sting.

Hang in there, kitty!

2. Sunday Morning

The kids are screaming, the spouse is complaining about his/her something, your parents are calling to get you to explain how Sky+ works "Just one last time, dear" - oh, man, it's Sunday! It's all getting to be a bit too much to be honest. I mean, you were going to be something but then something happened and now your life is just a big fat mess. There is one form of salvation though; today your significant other is taking the kids out all day for once. You have the house to yourself at last, so now you can finally unwind, get naked, load Google Street View and pretend you're a naked space-angel following people as they go about their day. It's all going according to plan until you hear a knock at the door... Who could it be? Well, of course it's Sting. He's just moved in down the road, and since hot water is just normal water made angry, his wife Trudie despises kettles and because of this he hasn't had a cup of tea in years. You invite him in and immediately set about making the perfect cup of tea, engaging in small talk and getting to know him better. The tea is a success and he thanks you for it with a signed copy of his top 40 hit 'Desert Rose'. He's about to leave when he confides in you that he does sometimes have doubts about his genius, that maybe if he hadn't written the song 'Until...' for the film Kate & Leopold would some other musician have done it just as easily? This is a dire situation, and you think of the faces of your children; you think about them growing up in a world without a regular appearance by Sting on The Culture Show. You can't let that happen. You shelve your plans to watch karate films for training purposes in case you're ever attacked in the street and steel yourself for what is to come. You must fuck Sting. 

Sting will grant you one game of chess, but you're

only postponing your inevitable death. 

3. Car Showroom

Your current car has given you some good memories, or rather facilitated your good memories by acting as a means of transportation with which to travel to a location where good memories took place, or maybe you did just have a party in your car - it's not important now. The important thing is that you've decided to buy a new car with all that money you made selling your childhood toys on eBay (I hope Captain Soft Hugs doesn't haunt you in your dreams). As you watch other people dutifully traverse the floor, kicking tyres and inflating their cheeks in shock at the prices in the car windows, you try and find a spot where you can fart without raising any eyebrows. You think you're alone, but before you can relax physically a pair of firm hands grip you by the shoulders and a voice fills your head; it's as soft as a hummingbird, murmuring something about change for the vending machine because it'll be damned if it's breaking into a £10 note just for a Drifter. You turn your body, and before you can even begin recommending it buys Fruit Pastilles instead since they last longer and have the added value bonus of variety you discover the voice belongs to international pop sensation Sting! Immediately you begin asking him if he's here to buy a car as he licensed his song 'Desert Rose' to a 2001 car advertisement which some felt was massively hypocritical as he was claiming to be quite an environmentalist at the time. He says he is not, and that he merely enjoys stalking the showroom floors of car dealerships since it reminds him of the jungle. You don't even question that sentence. Having deprived you of your bus fare home and rebutted your idea of teaming up for an autobiography which also incorporated a sub-plot about the decline in population of the European bee (Will There Ever Bee Another Sting?) he begins to slink away. It's now you realise you can't let this happen. You grit your teeth and clench your hands into fists, destroying the cone-shaped polystyrene cup in your right hand that was going to be a party hat for your cat on his next birthday. You call his name and he turns towards you, hoping in his heart you'll tell him you love him, but you won't tell him... You'll show him. You'll fuck Sting.

A panther exuding Sting-like levels of intensity 

and the desire to eat smaller mammals.

So now that you know what to do in at least three potential Sting scenarios, it's up to you to get out there and make them happen. Good luck, Sting-fuckers!