Oh. My. God. – Impossibly catchy. I can’t stop watching. HELP. (only for people with broadband, or a spare 10 minutes)

I’ve been thinking about tinkering/enhancing/ruining wibbler.com for a while, without compromising its clean, handsome looks etc. And I’ve drawn a blank, so I’m throwing it open to the floor. Anyone of you techno wizards have any suggestions design-wise?

Amsuingly, if you search Google for “beckham letter popbitch“, wibbler.com comes out top dog. That’ll explain my recent shedload of visitors then…

Two things I’ve learned today:

- Never trip over Anthea Turner while shopping. It’s hugely embarrassing, and everyone will assume you did it on purpose.
- If you’re a IT guy, never make an computer system run perfectly – you’ll be out of a job.*

*I haven’t actually been sacked – but if anything actually worked well, I’d have absolutely nothing to do…

Good gravy: CBC News: Spiders weave huge natural wonder. Click on the “Spider Web Photo Gallery” to see the full amaing pictures, bizarrely described as a “trampoline for aliens”…

Having come home tonight for the first time since Thursday, I’ve realised, not before time, that I’m a shell of the man I was five days ago. Friday night’s drunken antics on the dancefloor of The Drink in Guildford with Nick meant Saturday was designated a firm “rest” day. Saturday evening’s drunken antics in Ealing with Jac prompted more cries of “I feel like death” and “I’m too old for this” on Sunday morning, and Sunday’s night’s visit to Watford to watch the wonderful Toploader in action only served as a reminder that my poor body can only stand so much. Monday morning at work was a washout, and Monday night’s meeting in RSVP topped what was already the most expensive and exhausting long weekend for a while. Most amusing moment of the entire weekend, though, was the appearance of a virtually redundant female bass player on one of Toploader’s supporting acts. Forgetting where I was for a moment, and realising too late a lull in the noise of the crowd, I yelled as she grabbed the bass guitar, “Does that LOOK like a kettle?”. Several glares later, and after watching Jac cry with laughter for nearly 3 minutes, I ate my hat as the band, Easyworld, turns out to be rather good.

When I was at school, one of Jac‘s most impressive claims to fame was that he could sing all of the words from the Billy Joel classic, We Didn’t Start The Fire. Impressive because he was only 9 and the song itself is a prime example of how many words you can fit into 4 minutes of pop. Then along came this: We Didn’t Start The Fire – the Flash Version. From someone with more time on their hands than Jac ever had.

Well, the ever cracking Popbitch have done it again, being plastered all over the news for it’s naughty comments a la Beckham. As someone on there said tonight, bidding the messageboard goodnight, “flak jackets and tin hats tomorrow, methinks…”

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.
“Yes.”
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”.