I know it takes a while to go through all the different ways/ But I can't think of a better way I'd like to spend the day/ So turn off your cellphone and crack out the Gatorade/ Because it's time to get to business and there's nothing left to say.

Poor JC, doomed forever to walk in the shadow of his lesser-talented buddy. There he went, making a truly fabulous album of kitsch eclecticsm, and yet still he can never live up to the overinflated public standing of 'the other one'. According to my personal pop checklist, there should be no competition: he has the better hair, knows promotion well enough to use disposable asset Tara Reid and a fabulous Paris Hilton sex-tape pastiche for videos, and oh yes- the whole 'amazing songs written with no contribution from the Neptunes' part as well.

But how well we know the injustice of this pop world.

You're doomed, my dear. Never mind that '100 Ways' is an outrageously impulsive burst of brilliance, with an opening guitar riff alone that makes me want to grab the nearest unsuitable man and throw him down for a good four minutes of sleazy joy; who's going to listen to that when they can have that baby-faced boytoy croon with all his castrated abilities about true love and romance? Yawn. I'll pick his Prince impression over that Jackson act in a snap.

So what do we have here that elevates this song to such pulsating heights? Why, a wholly infectious seduction, as he whispers "A hundred positions/ We're getting it on/With no intermission/ Until you get off." Energy and the all-important disjointed swoop between verse/chorus/bridge are all bound up in one writhing package of innuendo. It's filthy, panting and sends you away with a slap on the ass and a spring in your step, as a song utterly devoted to the finer art of fucking should well do.

In fact, the whole JC vs JT contrast can be reduced to the vital matter of who would be a better lay; the latter may promise suave skills, but his high-pitched wails reveal sickening puppy-dog devotion. You just know that for all his Pharrel-hanging, love-'em-and-leave-'em posturing, he'll demand a cuddle after said disappointingly repetitive session. Meanwhile JC would slam you up against the wall with a raised eyebrow and wicked gleam the very minute he laid eyes on you, and on no account want to talk about 'feelings' the morning after.

I know which I prefer.