What do £2000, 3 hats and 366 emails have in common? The answer is Dublin.
Read on for the Wibbler Tour of Dublin 2003…

It’s all quiet on the wibbler.com weblog front at the moment, mainly because of my impending birthday trip to Dublin. My boss has suddenly realised I’m going away, and has therefore decreed that everything that could quite easily be done after I come back, has to be done before I go. Cue me running around like a blue-arsed fly, bless me.
Still, I’m packed, I’ve had a haircut, I’ve brought enough pants and socks, and I’m ready for a fun weekend. Nick, Jac, Michelle and I fly off at 6am tomorrow morning to Dublin (we’re staying in a nice hotel right in the centre of Temple Bar) and will arrive back, wrecked, on Tuesday night. Jac and Nick are trying their best to wind me up about impending birthday pranks, so I’m taking my large army knife as defence just in case*.
So, all being well, you’ll hear from me on Wednesday night, full of the joys of the Irish. Anyone know a good bar?
* Plainly not true.

Workwise, my good friend Jac has landed, like the proverbial cat, on both feet. After an achingly long time scraping a living in the post-university abyss of job-searching, he landed a graduate role at Renault. A new, free car every 11 months, a steadily increasing salary, courses, trips, everything you could want. he even went on a Positive Thinking course the other day – and now he regularly comes out with wishy-washy positive drivel. “There’s always a bright side”, “but think of the positives”, “every cloud has a silver lining”. Try telling that to Robert Maxwell.
But now, he’s really come up trumps. After entering a Renault competition – a frighteningly easy task of taking pictures of their newly-designed (and highly suspect) Megane. He duly took the thing all the way to Cardiff, took some snaps, brought them back and won first prize – 2 tickets to the British Grand Prix at Silverstone. Not just any old tickets though. Oh no. Helicopter travel to the ground, Champagne breakfast, meeting the drivers, tour of the track, VIP seating, the whole caboodle. Lucky, lucky tyke. Make sure you take a camera, Jac…

England vs Italy. Bound to be a triumphant rugby victory in England’s quest for the Grand Slam. And, fortunately, 8 of us were there to cheer them on from the north stand at Twickenham!
A chance email from an old school contact led to eight superbly placed tickets at Twickenham on Sunday. Elli, Ed, Mel, Jac, Nick, Tim, Michelle and I met at Clapham Junction at 11am. Well, that was the plan – in reality, Nick and Tim decided that few drinks were in order the previous night, and barely managed to arrive before we’d left the Slug And Lettuce pub at 1.30pm. Still, spirits were high – we had flags and rugby shirts on, and Mel had painted St George flags on everybody’s cheeks, and amusingly the word “prick” on Jac’s forehead. Nick went the whole hog and had his entire face painted with a the flag – sadly, he looked less like a flag, more like a hot cross bun. We were such a sight that a camerawoman working for the Metro newspaper took pictures of some of us, rightly judging that the rest of the group’s facial features might have cracked the lens.
After I had bought the obligatory stupid hat, we arrived at the stadium at 2.45, and at 3pm England kicked off. The first 20 minutes went to form – England scored 33 points in 22 minutes. But then they obviously thought it wasn’t really worth it – for another hour not a single point was scored. To cheer up the deflated group, Jac suggested a betting game. It went roughly like this:
Wibbler: “I bet one English pound that the next penalty with go to England.”
Jac: “Ok.”
Next penalty kick goes to England.
Wibbler: “That’ll be one round pound please.”
It was a suggestion that Jac was soon to regret. After 30 minutes, he was six pounds down, and with nothing left but a couple of guitar picks, he gave in.
All in all, a very good day, and a great experience. The game wasn’t the best, but the male streaker certainly warmed the hearts for the girls present. Thanks to everyone who came – even Simon B turned up on the East stand. Which was nice.

And here’s Stage 1 of the wibbler.com identity crisis. “Great,” says Jac, Nick, Paul D and the rest of ‘em, “You’ve changed everything BUT the menu.” Patience, you.

After all the FUN OF THE FAIR on Friday night, we were all washed out. Jac looked truly awful, emptying his stomach for most of the afternoon, while I was at work, a virtual zombie. A small night at the Cranley Hotel was called for for us all, where Jac and Shaun were due to sing their hearts out at Open Mike night. After Jac’s previous night’s success with Becki, both of them were a little apprehensive of meeting again, but things went well. Until, sadly, the landlord (a personal friend of Jac) turned up. Interrupting a perfectly civil conversation between Jac and Becki, the landlord drew up the table and announced, “So, Jac, I hear you pulled last night.” Everyone stopped talking. Tumbleweed skitted past. Jac’s life flashed before him, as everyone imagined the blokey gossip, congratulations and slaps on the back that must have gone on not half an hour before. “So, who was she? Was she nice?” the landlord asked again, ignoring the utter horror on our faces. “Well?”, the landlord again asked, desperate to glean any information at all from his clammed-up friend. Eventually, something had to give.
“Steve,” said Jac, “meet Becki.”
After the laughter died down, we tried to rescue the evening, but Jac, out of sheer embarrassment, and Becki, out of sheer awkwardness, barely talked for the rest of the night.
It was ALMOST worth it…

Last night was a standard night in Guildford with Jac , Michelle and Becki, with the added brilliance of a present Jac had bought for me. You see, when looking through some photos of my Mexican holiday a while back, he spied a picture of me holding a donkey – before turning to me and uttering the immortal words, “Nice ass.” We all agreed, after the laughter had died down, that this was a moment of comedic genius. And what should Jac find a few weeks later than a bright metal drinks coaster spelling the word ASS. I duly took my ASS around town with me on Friday night, squeezing all the amusing connotations I could out of the opportunity. For example, “don’t touch my ass”, “kiss my shiny ass”, and Jac’s chat up line, “would you like to touch my ass?” (and countless others) all came into play. in fact, Jac’s chat up line actually worked on Becki…

Whenever I have a Big Night Out worthy of a mention here, it usually takes a few days for me to be in a fit state to write about it. Saturday is a case in point – copious amounts of alcohol drunk for Jac’s birthday bash, loud shirts worn, and the night hazy and forgotten after about 10pm. And probably far too much money spent – I don’t even dare look at my bank balance this morning…

People have accused me, in my old age, of failing to party as hard as I used to. Handily, I have countered that accusation with APLOMB over the past two days. Your humble webmaster is currently bearly able to hear, think or string a sentence together after two nights of debauched antics. Friday night, originally earmarked by Michelle and I for a quiet cinema visit, turned into a semi-drunken night in Cranleigh with Shunta and Jac, singing karaoke (including the ever-present American Pie – the 9 minute version), and arriving home with part of a fence. It only got worse on Saturday, when Alex MacHorton’s birthday provided a good excuse for a boogie. Kingston’s McCluskys bar was blessed with our presence – a bar which to Jac and I’s amusement greets everyone with a sign: “Warning: Fun”. Duly warned, we entered. Becki and Michelle attracted the usual perverted “are they twins” comments, while Jac and I danced like buffoons, perfected some splendid new dancing techniques – the “Typewriter”, the “Tennis Match” and the “Lawnmower” to name a few. Only when we came out did we release that we were all pleasantly deaf, but still a perfectly splendid night all round. And it’s Jac’s birthday bash next weekend – god help me.

“Some time in the future, I am going to organize a sister swapping party where guys turn up with their sisters and we trade them. Unfortunately you don’t have a sister so you can’t come”

The most amazing idea to come out of Jac for some time… Now, Jac’s sister… (wibbler rubs his hands with glee)