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makes us feel. If there were no men in the world, the planet would be full of happy, fat women eating Mars bars. It’s so much better than sex.’
    Women have no idea how inadequate that makes us feel.
    â€˜Masturbation is often better than sex, as well,’ I say. ‘And we don’t go on about it.’
    â€˜Why don’t you give it up for Lent then, Jack?’ asks Claire.
    â€˜Yes,’ chorus first kiss and first shag. ‘I dare you.’
    â€˜I double-dare you,’ adds Flatmate Fred. Mel and Susie titter at his witticism.
    OK, then, I think. I am in the driving seat of my life, and I will. If the son of God managed to resist the temptation to turn stones into bread in the desert, I’m sure that I can keep away from my trouser snake for six weeks.
    â€˜OK, then,’ I tell my four disciples. ‘I will. And what are the terms of the bet?’
    The girls look at each other and giggle.
    â€˜You get what you’ve always wanted,’ says first kiss.
    â€˜A medal?’
    â€˜A foursome with all of us.’
    Oh. My. God.
Wednesday 9th February
    Spent all day thinking about Mel’s offer last night. She can’t really have meant it. Surely. It must have been a sly little ploy to frustrate me. How can I possibly abstain for six weeks when that image is constantly in my mind? It’s devious psychological warfare: the reward is the torture itself.
    But hey, we all need challenges in our lives. Some people row across the Atlantic and climb Everest. I’m going to have simultaneous sex with three of my best friends.
Friday 11th February
    Remembering the doctor’s diagnosis at the beginning of the week that I am, indeed, a fat, balding bastard, I decided to go the gym this morning. It was surprisingly fun. The padded exercise bikes can be quite comfortable for watching
Sky News
as long as you don’t move around too much. The weights are OK, too, on the condition that you put the key on the easiest level and keep to five repetitions. And I positively loved falling off the ergo machine onto a sweaty patch of unprotected metal below.
    But what is it with communal changing rooms? I saw Rupert (bald) standing on a bench and blow-drying his pubic hair while whistling an out-of-tune Marseillaise. Well-endowed men trotted around naked (‘No towel is big enough to cover it,’ they seem to imply), as if they were expecting a round of applause whenever they walked into the shower. We less blessed mortals scurried around nervously trying to wash, dry and dress in under seven seconds.
    â€˜Do you want to work on your abs or your pecs first?’ asked the personal trainer.
    Stupid man. I just want to look good naked.
    â€˜That could take a little while,’ he replied.
Monday 14th February
    Valentine’s Day. The day of commercialism, despair, desperation and love.
    There was the usual card from my dad, which he’s sent every year since I was twelve. When I was at school he used to write ‘love from Daddy’ on a Post-it note so I could tear it out and pretend I had a secret admirer. There was also a card signed jointly by Claire, Mel and Susie. Now they’re really playing me.
    Today, however, I had other things on my mind. Today I was going to make a tentative move on Leila. Stepping into the driving seat of my life (can you step into a seat?), I started to compose an email.
    To: Leila Sidebottom (
yeuch
)
From: Jack Lancaster
Subject: No subject (
what subject could I give it? ‘Re: trying to pull you’?
)
Monday 14th February 14.35
    Hey Leila, how you doing?! (
why the exclamation mark?
) How are things on the Westside of the desk (
what kind of joke is that?
)?! A bunch of us are going out for a few drinks after work today. Do you fancy coming along?
    J
(pretty cool, eh?
)
    My mouse hovered over the ‘send’ button. I hesitated. I paused. And then I thought,
I am not flotsam, I am going to send this email
. And so I