You don't burp in front of her before 9pm
Whenever you find a heart-shaped pebble, you post a photo on her Facebook wall, with a hashtag encapsulating the intensity of love burning within.
Laugh at her jokes and refrain from slapping your thighs or hitting your drums and a cymbal every time you make a funny.
Text her regular pictorial updates, to keep her fully briefed about the contents of your trousers, around the clock.
Tell her that you're kept awake by indignant rage about everyday gender inequalities against women. One day the Dalai Lama will wear a t-shirt with your face on it.
Pretend you have a black belt in an exotic martial art/Iron Maiden wrote a song about you called Virile Mother-Lover and have to come clean at an undoubtedly final date.
Knock back a whisky and bite down on a shoe
Phone your mum, asking her to repeatedly tell you that it’ll be ok and that you really are her brave little soldier
Google symptoms and diagnose yourself with a condition that only Doctor House himself could possibly treat, then compile a joyless bucket list.
Pain is weakness leaving the body, so you embrace the agony - your Adam's Apple swells with every stab and your chest hairs become more luxurious.
You actively seek out pain, stapling your balls to curtains; encouraging mates to use your chin as a trampoline and creating a YouTube-friendly Guantanamo Bay.
You channel the pain's negative energy into something positive, by writing a Haiku about the experience.
F*ck Her Gently - Tenacious D
The Ring of Fire - Johnny Cash
Can You Feel It? - The Jacksons
Who’s Your Daddy? Toby Keith
You Keep Me Hanging On - The Supremes
I am the Walrus - The Beatles
I Get Around - The Beach Boys
Who Let the Dogs Out - Baha Men
The Power Rangers Theme
Tears in Heaven - Eric Clapton
Touch My Bum - The Cheeky Girls
A stick woman with generous chesticles on your buttock, by your grinning mate… using a fork and Biro. #LADS
The ancient Chinese symbol for Brave Warrior... on your inner thigh where your mum won't look
Needles make your balls retract into your lungs, which is a shame, because you'd like a tattoo so you can be an individual like everybody else.
If there's room, you'd pop a few more teardrops beneath your eyes, and a little "slaaag" in Times New Roman, behind your ear wouldn't go amiss.
A calligraphy tattoo of your girlfriend's name, to show your Teflon-coated commitment, because five months is as serious as famine and you've already named every limb and appendage on each other's bodies.
Head to an East London parlour, run by people with names that are also nouns and choose a pin-up/swallow/anchor which looks good with your Topman shirt.
Find the cutest pig and kill it by punching it repeatedly in the face - when your arms aren't beating your chest - then light a fire, sit in the flames and eat it raw.
Investigate how many times it takes to headbutt a palm tree, before you start forgetting that you were hungry.
Live on fish, but suffer 'Nam-like flashbacks of their deaths and are sure one of them mouthed "mummy" with its last breath.
Scour foliage, hunting for quinoa and Tofu. Realise you can't round off the meal with a pot of Activia and the island could be full of gluten, so resign yourself to starving to death.
Survive on fruit and coconuts and return to civilisation, where you stand on a box and tell local villagers about your adventures, detailing the vast reserves of testosterone-force required to crack open coconuts.
Secretly hope your friend dies before losing his body fat, so you can eat him. Encourage him to swim with you in the meantime, because you can't stomach washing his dead body before barbecuing it.
You don some Marigolds and remove it from her bosom by one leg, then hang it in the garden to scare away badgers.
Refuse to partake in pram-pushing, because you're quietly confident this is one step away from wearing an enormous pink bra and telling your mates to call you Barbara.
You spent your childless years bemoaning friends for posting endless Facebook baby snaps, being sure to point out the disconcerting ugliness of their spawn. But you now update pals about your sprog's sleeping and bowel movements, using a Pinterest board you've knocked together.
Eye it suspiciously across the the table, impatiently willing it to skip the leaky years and leap to the part where you call him Junior and teach him to shave and nip to the shop to buy your beer and fags.
This baby is living proof that you actually had bonafide sex with a real woman. It beats that time Gav gave Big Suze a Snickers and a Mood Ring for a flash of her devil's crumpets behind the Geography block.
You read it Faust and play Latin nursery songs in the hope its first word will be "mater" or "duodequadringentesimus" and new toys are banned until it's solved its Rubik's Cube.
Brian Blessed circa Banzuke.
Scenester fur, dressed with chorizo oil and Jeremiah Weed.
John Travolta’s wife
Five Children and It
Unclassified animal which arrived at Animal Hospital half-dead and mangled in a PG Tips box
Secret source of ginger shame, which must be tamed and repressed at all costs.
After knocking back 25 shots of vodka via my eyeballs
After watching an Upworthy video about a cross-eyed waitress and a giraffe with learning difficulties. The film promised that you just wouldn't believe what happens next, and you didn't.
After sex. You don't do it as often during the act itself though, these days.
After failing to construct an Ikea table called Sven and ruining the thread on three crucial screws, throwing you into an existential crisis.
Watching Johnny Cash perform Hurt, shattering your soul into a particularly challenging jigsaw
You could make a Happy Meal cry, but nothing could make your eyes sweaty. You were born without tear ducts and have evolved beyond sorrow.
Enthusiastically agree to his wonderful suggestion that you lick his boots clean and bark like a dog, in return for not being hit in the face.
Recreate a Mortal Kombat finishing move, then remember that it requires the ability to fly. You make the whooshing noise with your mouth, but he's unafraid.
Try to fight him with brain, not brawn, dipping your toe into the wobbly waters of psychoanalysis, asking if he got enough hugs as a child.
Screw up your empty crisp packet really menacingly, while maintaining unblinking eye contact with him and then aggressively throwing it to the floor. Then run.
Rain a torrent of Roundhouse Kicks upon him, while chucking in a few disparaging remarks about his mother's weight problems.
Completely throw him by pulling out a lunchbox containing two egg sandwiches, a Penguin bar and a Babybel, which you offer to share with him.
Being wrong is greater than a herd of Alien chest-bursters and Misery hobblings. If murder laws weren’t so overbearing, you'd leave a trail of dead after every Trivial Pursuit game.
Women terrify you, although like bees, you accept they are a necessary evil. You’ve let them walk on your hand and know they're possibly more scared of you, than you are of them, but the fear confrontation isn’t working.
You quiver like a stricken blancmange when the C-Bomb - commitment - explodes, driving you to act as if your penis is on fire and can only be extinguished by plunging it in the nearest female.
Davina McCall’s screeching voice, using the tones usually reserved for an Army Drill Sergeant and the general demeanour of a multiple-ADD child cause you to suffer palpitations and panic attacks.
Snakes. Anything that can still stick its fangs into you when its head has been lobbed off should not be allowed - you are writing to your MP to say as much.
You wake in a cold sweat from a recurring dream about being naked from the waist down in Tesco, which is infinitely more embarrassing than being entirely naked. So you buckle your belt extra tight whenever you step foot inside a supermarket.