2002 May

Cultured Theatre Trip

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I feel SO cultured. Last night, I went to a play called An Absolute Turkey at The Electric Theatre in Guildford, and thoroughly surprised myself by enjoying it immensely. It helped, of course, the one of the lead roles was played by a good friend, but it was actually really funny, and a complete change from getting drunk in Wetherspoons, a mere fifty yards away from the theatre, as I usually do every weekend…

Big Brother 3

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I’m a big fan of Big Brother, even if they have started to charge people to watch the thing on the internet. Watching people doing nothing in particular is hugely fascinating to me. At work last year, we had the Big Brother internet stream on fullscreen on a devoted computer for the entire series. Hell, I even tuned in the other night to see in one of the contestants really did snore as much as my work buddy claimed (she was entirely right, as ever). So, Digital Spy’s Big Brother site is a godsend to me, but their devotion troubles me – do the site owners get any sleep?
(I’ve handily created a spanking new link on the right there, under the menu. You can thank me by way of a donation, if you must. Oh, go on.)

Dad’s Lunch

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A distinct lack of a Dad around today. He popped out ‘for a bite’ at lunchtime with his business partner, and after 5 hours had passed, Mum seemed a little concerned. It turns out a ‘large’ lunch was planned, but apparently he’s wending his way slowly home now…

Simon H’s Fancy Dress Party

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Well, recovering from a night at the Cranleigh Hotel is never an easy job, but today was especially frightening. Simon H’s birthday turned into a fancy-dress free-for-all, with your wibblery host rolling up as Osama bin Laden, while erstwhile partner Jac tottered around as a very impressive giant set of male genitals. With a convenient flap in the front in case the bladder needed a good empty. Brilliant! Well done him. Elsewhere, there were a couple of surgeons (Michelle and Becki), Elvis, Cruella de Vil, and a whole host of fetching outfits. One especially chucklesome moment came in the men’s toilets, when Jac in his phallic costume was relieving himself after a succession of wet pints. Another man entered, unaware of the fancy dress party, and looked bemused at the set of genitals that stood before him. After a few seconds had passed, Jac turned to face him, and slowly uttered the immortal words, “Just … pretend … everything … is … normal“. With that, the man dissolved into giggles, couldn’t follow through, so to speak, and left. Believe me, it was a surreal moment that won’t leave my addled brain for a while…


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Oooooooh, hectic (said in a Julian Clary voice). Last night, one of my colleagues from work entered a UK-wide DJ contest. She was the only female in the entire competition, which brought her a standing ovation for just walking up there. Now, I’m not the most ‘hip’ of guys, not the most deep daaan wicked sorted nice one geezer, so I wouldn’t know a good DJ if they came up and slapped me with a wet fish, but I have to admit she was the only one that got my feet tapping and my hips swinging, which probably didn’t help her cause in the slightest. Still, she won the heat, bless her socks, and she’s doing the regional finals next Tuesday. WELL DONE HER.
Oh, and Happy Birthday yesterday, Shunta.

Boy Racer.

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Did I mention I’ve got my new car? A spanker it is too. Last night, after 2 1/2 days of driving sensibly, I buckled. I rushed into my car, took it up to the A3, and thrashed up to the next junction and back, temporarily becoming one of the boy racers I’ve learned to hate during my limited driving career. 12 miles and 110+ miles per hour later, and I was back in Guildford, steam gently rising from the engine, and a slight smell of burnt tyre hanging in the air.
My work was done.


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I woke early one morning,
The earth lay cool and still
When suddenly a tiny bird
Perched on my window sill,
He sang a song so lovely
So carefree and so gay,
That slowly all my troubles
Began to slip away.
He sang of far off places
Of laughter and of fun,
It seemed his very trilling,
brought up the morning sun.
I stirred beneath the covers
Crept slowly out of bed,
Then gently shut the window
And crushed his f**king head.

Hitler and the Bible

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I was sitting in the staff room this afternoon, idly prodding at a duck salad that had seen better days (probably when the duck was alive, I suppose) when, for want of anything better to do, I read aloud the latest asylum row in the UK (we have a similar scandal almost once a week at the moment, which is nice). The row this week concerned the asylum seekers just jumping on trains through the Channel Tunnel. And then a colleague, who I’d always had down as the sort that wouldn’t think twice about tearing around town on a drinking binge, bearing his genitals at a moments notice, suddenly said, “ah yes, Book of Revelations”. “Eh?” I enquired. “Well,” he said, and proceeded to tell me all about the Revelations chapter of the Bible, which details a disciple’s dream one night. The Middle Eastern unsettlement, the many races mixing as one, the problems with the immigrants – it was all detailed, more or less, in that chapter, so he said. As he moved on to Hitler’s legacy (I began to get a little unnerved at this point), I began to wonder if he had a point. After all, the Book of Revelations was a forewarning of the current warring factions, and the Channel Tunnel, in a roundabout way, was, along with the autobahns, Adolf Hitler’s way of preparing for the future. There was Hitler, asking as Transport Minister to build all sorts of fast, straight roads into other countries, and mooted a tunnel under the sea to the UK, and no-one suspected a thing. Then, all of a sudden, he rolled tanks down the blooming things to kill everyone. Incredibly cunning.
Now, you play with that particular rubber duck in your bathtub, and I’ll go get some sleep…

Test The Nation

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Half the British nation settled down with a warm mug of cocoa last night to find out just how low our IQs were in the BBC’s Test The Nation programme. It divided the audience into competing sections such as Builders, Teschers, Students, Blondes (guess where they came…) and so on. Your rather smug Wibbler came in with a rather astonishing IQ of 124 – astonishing not only because it’s 24 points over the average intellect (boast boast), but also because…. well, it’s me! By a happy coincidence, it turns out that Paul D was among the ‘test audience’ that was used before the show went live, and therefore phoned me up half way through the test to interupt my flow, the tyke. He claimed that he never found out his score – I shall always believe, therefore, that he’s nestling in the lower regions of the IQ table, just beneath the model Jordan and the ‘entertainer’ Harry Hill. But well above Tony Blair.

Anyway, during Paul’s update, he mentioned something that warmed the heart like a pig on a spit. Not only does he actually read the “hilarious” email forwards I send him every day by the dozen, but he even printed one out the other day and inflicted it on a table of onlookers at a dinner party! The poor fool, it’ll only encourage me…