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…

If I say another drunken night was had, you’d probably groan at the inevitability of it all. Although this time, The Cranley Hotel beckoned for “Open Mike” night with a difference: this was “Open Shaun and Jac” night. Shaun (Shunta‘s brother) and Jac both sang their little hearts out for 3 1/2 hours, coped admirably with the appallingly timed Cranleigh Rugby team night out (of all the nights Shaun and Jac chose…) and generally had an enormous amount of fun with myself, Shunta, Michelle and Sophie. I was particularly impressed with Jac’s T-Shirt – the very one I had bought him for his birthday. Everyone was very impressed. Shunta “worked” behind the bar all night, but ended up the most drunk out of all of us, arriving back home just in time to show us his horde from the trip to his house – a stack of 100 magazines, two camping signs, a couple of daffodils and a bus stop. I wonder if he still has a job…

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.

9am – We decide to go on some canoes for a while, and we cleverly choose a time when the waves are just picking up. 3 seconds after casting out to sea, Michelle flips over, and we all laugh ourselves hoarse. Soon, we get the hang of it, and half an hour later we’d tried to come to shore. This is ridiclously easy, and I rode in on a huge wave, managing to get half way up the beach without any help whatsoever. SPLENDID FUN.
10am – Michelle and Becki’s mum does a magnificent impression of a sprinkler in action, even down to the phhht phhht sounds. Truly impressive.
Drinks knocked Over = 0

For the first time in my short little life, I was dragged to watch a basketball match with Michelle and Becki last night (Saturday). And, to my complete surprise, I actually enjoyed it! Goodness. I discovered three main things that night.

1. Basketball players are plainly sexual magnets. After the game, thousands (well, a few) of the female crowd gathered round the stars, trying to swop phone numbers with them. It was difficult to watch in awe, being with my girlfriend and all, but I managed…
2. The Thames Valley Tigers, who I was supposed to support, are in fact one of the sweatiest groups of people I’ve ever seen. Especially Number 7, a huge, ugly tyke that was instantly labelled “Becki’s boyfriend” to the amusement of the rest of the group.
3. I discovered that basketball is the home to the world’s worst job. Every time a sweaty specimen hits the floor after a failed manouvre, a young boy has to get on his knees with a rag and mop up the patch of sweat, while members of the audience entertainingly shout, “put your back into it, man.” I SERIOUSLY hope his wage is worth it.