Sexy? No, no, no!

On Saturday night, I got dragged out by my eccentric friend, Trish - by "dragged", I mean that she called me up and said: "Coming out tonight?" and I responded with "Nah, I'm not really in the mood." She said: "Oh, come on, I'll come over with a bottle of wine and we'll get pissed before we go out," to which I begrudgingly replied: "Oh, go on then. I'll start slapping my fake tan on!"

Honestly, she didn't give me much of a choice!

Over our first (of several) bottles of Pino G, I confided that I was determined to become a slag. She gave me a lingering, patronising look.

"Oh, Josh," she said. "You could never be a slapper. You're too nice."

She raised a manicured hand to affectionately ruffle my hair, but prudently thought better of it. She was well aware that a handful of hair-gel, twenty minutes with the hair-straighteners, a smidgen of putty and half a can of hairspray had gone into creating my casual, couldn't-care-less hair style. Every seemingly random strand of hair had been meticulously positioned and accounted for and every eventuality had been considered, from the slightest drizzle of rain to the fiercest hurricane. Nothing short of an apocalypse could compromise my rock-hard barnet.

Eventually, we staggered into town and, over a few more bottles of vinegary wine, I reiterated my sleazy mission. Trish thought that it was hysterical.

"I'm sorry," she guffawed. "I just can't imagine you as a man-slag!"

I attempted to act affronted, but hearing her utter the word "man-slag" in her characteristic girly-voice caused me to start laughing myself.

"I'm serious," I insisted.

Trish brandished her blood-red nails and wiped her short blonde hair away from her face. "Please don't be a slag," she said pityingly. "It just won't suit you. You're handsome, sexy, stylish and funny. You don't need to do it."

I was going to suggest going to a club so that I could embark on my slutty endeavours. I had donned my sexiest shirt and slipped on a brand-new pair of baby-blue Calvin Kleins especially for the occasion, but the wine had rendered my legs wobbly and unreliable; I shuddered to think what other parts of my anatomy had been similarly affected.

"New underwear?" Trish said, when I told her about my pulling outfit. "I thought only girls wore special underwear to impress blokes?"

I shook my head gravely. Underwear, I informed her, was crucial to my confidence and I had several favourites to help get me into my best seductive frame of mind.

For a first date, I always wear a crisp, white pair of CKs - I never have any intention of letting them be seen, but just knowing that I'm wearing them somehow makes me feel sexier. Despite my distinct lack of pecs or a six-pack, as soon as I slip into them I somehow manage to convince myself that I've got a body to rival Marky Mark.

For a second or third date, I've got my trusty Diesel briefs - in white, grey or black, depending on my mood. For a night out on the town, I've got my grey-and-red striped Topman boxers which are a size too small but always make me feel sexy. And when I definitely know I'm going to pull, I always wear my hot-pink g-string with "Sex-Bomb" inscribed on the crotch in silver glitter.

That was a joke.

Eventually, Trish and I tottered home. While she staggered into the spare room, I fell up the stairs and collapsed on my dishevelled bed. I glimpsed my reflection in the mirror and told myself that Trish was right. "I am handsome and sexy," I slurred to myself.

I could feel the wine forcing itself back up my throat. I knew that I should try to make it to the bathroom, but I was too dizzy to stand up; I was helpless as a trickle of vomit cascaded down my chin.

Undeterred, I refused to let this minor setback affect my confidence.

"Handsome and sexy," I repeated to myself, slightly unconvincingly. And then I passed out.