November 2002 Archives - wibbler.com
I popped out after work in Monday night for a swift half in RSVP, a one-time overflowing bar in the centre of Guildford. After polling up at the bar for a drink, someone screamed just behind me: “Simon!”. I swivelled round, and my eyes descended on a girl called Unity, a sometime friend and sister of a school chum. I hadn’t seen her for 3 years; her family was the height of public school educated, moneyed society, and last time I saw her she had money and boys dripping off her.
“How’ve you been?” I enquired, as I settled down next to her and some friends for a chinwag.
“Well, I’m living in Guildford now,” she revealed. That’d be right, I surmised. I’d always assumed it would only be a matter of time before her parents bought her a nice flat.
“That’s nice, whereabouts?” I innocently asked.
“The hostel up the road.”
This was the first sign that things may have moved on a little in the last 3 1/2 years.
“Oh. Parents kicked you out, did they?!” i joked.
Oh. I tried a well-worn subject change.
“So, what are you doing with yourself?”
“I work in a nightclub in Reading. You should come and see me sometime!”
Why not, I thought. Ever the student, I asked about the possibility of cheap drinks.
“That would be a bit difficult. I don’t keep any drinks in my cage.”
Her cage. I feared what was coming. “I’m a topless bondage dancer, you see.”
Now, I’d known Unity since she was 6. Imagine the sheer horror that was crossing my face as I played with that little gem. And then multiply it by 10.
“Bloody Hell!” was the only comeback I could think of that vaguely suited the situation. Amused by my shock, she laughed out loud as she delivered the final, illusion-shattering blow. “Oh, how rude of me,” she said, hugging the two barely dressed, heavily built girls next to her. “These are my girlfriends. We sleep together. Are you single?”
Had I been 17, single and drunk, I would probably have jumped at the chance. But as the threesome started indulging in a spot of tongue tennis, I ashamed to say I feigned a slack bladder and ran. Ran as fast as I possibly could.
Well, after 3 days of on-off wibbler.com, my hosters appear to have niggled their way out of the crisis of failed servers. Typical, the first time this has happened for 3 years, and just when I’ve added two new recruits, Moonlight Events and Jonola14, to the wibbler.com empire. Well, “empire”.
Well, in a striking but purely contrived coincidence, not only has there been bits of a man surgically removed in a public autopsy (gaping audience included) in the last couple of days, but jonola14.co.uk has been surgically removed from the generous hip of wibbler.com and is now a freestanding delight, paid for by the now fully flush Jonola. Tremendous.
You’ll notice it’s all been a bit sparse on wibbler.com lately. It’s frankly a struggle to find anything out of the ordinary that’s happened. Oh, apart from the first signs of my car packing up. It’s only been 6 months since I first purchased the RRN (really rather nippy) thing, but a loud noise in the front of the engine means its first longish stay in a Peugeot garage since it was built. It better be under guarantee, otherwise its no Christmas presents for anyone this year.
Last weekend, Jac, Nick and I popped up to see some friends in London. Simon H, unfortunately, was “unavailable” (those inverted commas are purely for the overinformed). It was initially a fancy dress get-together, but, scared by the mere thought of what Jac and I might concoct, the ‘fancy dress’ aspect was duly cancelled 3 days before the event. This was like a red rag to a bull. After calming the hosts’ fears, and assuring them that we were just arriving in normal clothes, we rolled up on the mauve doorstep in Balham, South London, with the most stupid outfits we could find. Jac went so far as to buy a costume, while I had dressed so fancily that no one could recognise me when the door eventually opened. As I presented myself at the door of the living room, the whole place went as quiet as the Queen Mother, as 22 normally-dressed people stared. In retrospect, I should have waited for Jac before entering, being only a minute behind me, waddling up the road dressed as an elf.
I tell you, trying to have a conversation with Elvis glasses, a huge afro wig and a bushy moustache is no easily flippable pancake. Remarkably hard. As the evening wore on, and the initial raucous laughter had died down, I wondered what on earth possessed me to slip into this overly hot rubbish. I duly changed, and as I poked my head out of the bathroom, I could make out the shape of Jac (don’t even ask me what shape Jac is…), suctioned heartily to Mel, hostess for the night. Again.
So, a jolly good night was had. I got drunk and was challenged to a wrestle (humble apologies to the opponent for his shredded boxer shorts…); Jac lost some more of his short-term memory (“I’ll have some garlic… what’s it called?” “Bread, Jac” “Oh yes, garlic bread”); and we all unfortunately confused the word “pansies” with the word “panties”, consequently thinking that Elli’s panties always face the sun, and must be watered at least once a day.
Having just this minute extensively checked and worked through half of my advent calendar, it took my mother to finally mention that it was, in fact, NOVEMBER. Whoops.
Amusingly, I received news this afternoon that Shunta ended last night’s drunken lock-in at his local pub completely naked, picking matchsticks of the bar floor with his teeth.
Don’t ask. I did, and it’s not pleasant.