How Saving Private Ryan changed my sex life.

I have never been so skint in my life. Three more long nights until Payday and I quite literally had to scrape the barrel to afford a train, this morning. My room is a desolate graveyard of pennies and two pence pieces after I unloaded a pot of collected change in my morning rush.

Combine that with a pile of plates, several empty cups of hot chocolate, scattered boxers, socks hanging from the door and you should be getting a rough idea of why I won't be bringing home any young ladies tonight. Or, any other night for that matter.

Women are infuriating. God made a massive mistake when he created Eve without an instruction manual. Just when you think you've got one sussed, she wriggles free and evades even your bleakest inspection of reality. I give up. With the festive season coming, I can't help myself from getting a little bit sentimental and god forbid - cuddly.

Anyway, I'd slap myself for stupidity if I could. It's not been a good day in the common sense stakes. Half of me says that I should learn to keep my mouth shut, the other half thinks "Hey, live by the sword, die by the sword," Might as well have a bloody good wave of it in the process.

I was sitting on the high street bench at lunch earlier, minding my own business and watching the cars go by as I tucked in to a Chicken Fillet double. It didn't take long for some strangely red-eyed builder type to come and sit down next to me. He was either drunk or naturally dopey, but I think his exact words were "These facking foreigners, takin' all the money. You got a quid, mate?"

I looked up at him, about to stuff three chips in my gob, gave him the shrug and nailed my typical excuse. "Sorry mate, got nothin' on me"

"It's alrigh', but you know I'd give you a pound if I had one, don'tcha?"

"Yeah, err, sorry dude. I really don't have a pound."

I was wanting nothing more than to be left in peace to eat the rest of my lunch, but he simply wouldn't budge. Launching in to a tirade against foreigners, he blamed them for everything from his car being clamped to failing to keep up with the mortgage repayments.

Honestly, I too am guilty of blaming foreigners for certain discrepancies in this country. But to blame them for being out of pocket when my mouth exhumes Jack Daniels with every word I speak, I'd be a little guilty of passing the buck.

Wisdom teeth. An extremely misleading name, in my opinion.

I've been suffering from mouth discomfort for the last few days and it was only last night that my mum told me it was probably a wisdom tooth. I've heard the term in loose conversation, but I figured it could only be a good thing.

"You should get it removed." she said.

Why? It's called a wisdom tooth. I'll keep it, thank you very much. Clearly I'm blessed with a rewarding gene pool.

It was only after a painful and hasty Wikipedia session that I discovered the true reality of what a wisdom tooth actually is. And more importantly, how I'm not so special after all. This hit me like a tonne of bricks. There's nothing I despise more than a trip to the dentists, while the knowledge that I "need something done" is enough to ruin the faint hope that I'll come home with a strawberry lollipop and all teeth in tact.

I was thinking about sex last night. As I do quite often. Every seven seconds if those scientists with too much time on their hands are to be believed.

But I remember, when I lost my virginity...we were watching Saving Private Ryan at the time. How did that actually happen? I genuinely don't recall how I managed to end up aroused during arguably the most violently graphic Hollywood movie of the last 10 years.

As far as turn-ons go, that has to be one of the most impressive feats of mind over matter. Wartime explosions kicking off on the surround sound, limbs being torn from the bone - hardly the most romantic setting for a first time, but I suppose it drowned out the noise.

Crash, bang, ooh spank me, wallop.

I should note that my first time did not involve spanking. Although it was far kinkier than I imagined it would be.

I don't care what anybody says. As a guy, no matter how much you want to do the deed, those final moments of foreplay leading up to first-time penetration are the most terrifying of your teenage life. You focus far too hard on making it a smooth experience, and it's only when you realise that you've been staring at her for the last ten minutes - eyes bulged, biting your lip - that you remember sex is a shared act and she's probably a little freaked.

Thankfully, I feel a whole lot more confident in the sack these days. As I do in general, ironically enough. Maybe us guys are simple after all.

I apologise to those I've tortured with my incoherent ramblings today, and for once I'm not talking about this blog. Although what I said is true to me, and I genuinely mean it, I'll do all concerned a favour and shut up about it.