My late night skirmish with the BabeStation channel.

I logged on to the BBC website today and read one of the breaking news stories, "Kabul suicide blast kills one."

Well, what a great success that was.

Little Ahmed went out to commit terrorism and succeeded only in topping himself. I can't imagine there'll be too many virgins in Nirvana for this particular fool.

Then again, it wouldn't surprise me if he wasn't a terrorist at all and the BBC were simply scaremongering again. That's half the reason I don't bother to switch on the news these days.

When was the last time something positive was reported? If green targets aren't being met, youths are being stabbed in the streets of London. If the Ipswich strangler isn't on trial for murdering a bunch of prossies, Diana's demise is being dragged through the public domain yet again.

Nonetheless, things are chirpy, I'm officially the big two-oh. Twenty years of age, half way to Forty, a third of Sixty, a fifth of the way to my telegram from the Queen. I don't actually feel that different, except I know that it's only a matter of time before the years start clocking by like yesterday's headlines.

It's made me think, though. If you could be one age for the rest of your life, what would you choose? Would you stay a two year old forever? Sweet sixteen? A seedy sixty nine?

I think I'd choose twenty four. It seems like the best balance between sexual prime and receeding hairline.

My actual birthday was a resounding success. Purely in the sense that I remember very little of it. We reigned down on Leicester Square in floral shirts like a pack of binge happy ponces, and it didn't take long for me to hit the dancefloor. When I say hit the dancefloor, I mean literally.

I must've been bounced off my feet at least half a dozen times. It was cool to see so many of my friends gathered together in one place, though. There were a few people missing who I'd liked to have seen there, but in all reality, the place was so swarming - I didn't even get to speak to everybody as it was.

The night ended on a wickedly embarrassing note. Having piled back in to my house with a group of seven or eight, we camped out in the lounge and flicked through the limited channels on my television.

Eventually settling for BabeStation, it was somebody's bad idea to suggest I call the premium rate £1.50 per minute line. Naturally, the sight of some scantily clad Essex tart waving her backside in my direction - albeit through the television, you forget these things when you're drunk - was enough to have me dialling the number.

I eventually made it through to the live show.

"Y'alright, Mate?" she said.

"Hi, are you the one on television?" was about the extent of my reply.

"Yeah, what's y'name, mate?"

"Lombard." I replied.

Take it from me, guys. If you're gonna call BabeStation, be horny or be in the position to get horny. It's pretty weird to bark out sexual orders at a girl on screen when you're surrounded by your mates, with your brother hiding behind the curtains, and feeling not too shifty after drinking yourself under the table in the first place.

I think I eventually asked her what football team she supported. But, of course, she's on air at the time - trying to get other muppets to call by riding some pillow in the slinkiest thong you've seen all night.

I eventually passed the phone on to my friend, and it ended up going round in a circle.

Even in the state of absolute Vodka-induced nonchallance, I still managed to spare a thought for the poor girl. What a job to have.

It all ended rather terribly when my mother walked in on us at 3am and saw me laying on the floor with the Essex girl grinding her booty directly at the camera.

I've never dropped a phone so quickly in my life.

Somewhere in Portugal, a janitor tops himself.

Has everybody now seen the sketch depicting the man suspected of kidnapping Maddy? I read the News of the World yesterday and it was rammed with references to a creepy looking stranger. A man with a perverted face, a man who made your blood run cold when he pierced you with his gaze.

Can you imagine if it turns out to be the local janitor?

Err, sorry mate. No offence though, aye? You just look a bit dodgy from a distance.

I'm not convinced personally. It's as if the sketch has been created to encompass every stereotype of paedophilia going. The sunken eyes, the greasy hair and the snarling frown. I feel like a witness to a modern day enactment of Scooby Doo. And I simply don't care anymore.

You know what else I'm sick to death of hearing about? Princess Diana and the death inquest! How much dirt can you drag up over one dead body?

The conspiracy theorists are utterly convinced that there's a sinister secret behind her death. Yet they'd have much more luck if they stuck to the same accusation rather than tossing crackpot ideas every which way but west - all in the hope that one sticks with the jury.

I find it amusing how Muslims will abjectly refuse to eat pork, yet have no such reservation about stuffing their faces with a poor forgotten battery chicken from Paul's takeaway. Yeah, yeah, I know. Pigs are supposed to be holy animals, aren't they? To be cherished and respected by all. Well, I feel the same way about bacon sarnies.

For the first time in many teenage years, I'm happy to be single. After the debacle that was my crusade to get laid in late 2007, I've settled in to a more relaxed regime of forgetting about women completely. That's not to say I'm turning gay - and I certainly can't be trusted not to have a damn good thrust when a dancefloor opportunity arises - but I have other plans for 2008.

As do many of this blog's readers by the sound of things. Those of you looking for dogging hot spots, try Mark Peskett's house.

But anyway. When I look at all the things I'm hoping to do - the festival trips, the holidays abroad, the clubbing and the pubbing - I've reached the simple conclusion that I'd have to be completely heartless to let a girl in to my life. It's not that I don't have any feelings for anybody, but rather I care enough to spare them the emotional torment of having to deal with my lifestyle.

I'll settle down eventually, but I feel like I'm turning in to my brother. A commitment-phobe who'd rather bounce from one bar to the next.

I've faced a bit of criticism for it. People seem to be convinced that relationships are the best way to achieve happiness, well, they're not. I like the freedom of being with my friends and not having to think twice about the implications of where my next pint might take me.

I know how it feels to be in a steady long-term relationship and my one regret is that I didn't save it for five years from now. Or maybe it's better that I witnessed things this way.

Some people probably think I've gone backwards since I split from that relationship. I was due to be moving to America this year, digging up a new life for myself and taking on a massive burden of responsibility. But that fell through and thank God it did because I'm far too young and far too restless to be that attached to a girl.

I don't understand the obsession teenagers have with acting above their age and chasing adult dreams.

I'll settle for being nineteen going on twenty, thanks.

An update on my dogging problem.

Am I the only one to notice the cruel irony of Help The Aged charity shops? You know, the fact that the sparse few people who shop in them are the wrong side of sixty? Talk about up your own arse, aye!

Sorry to get all political, but Ken Livingstone is blatantly brown nosing his way to the elderly vote in the mayoral election. Why else would he be extending the Freedom Pass for OAPs to travel without paying during peak times? Don't get me wrong, it's a nice gesture. But how about focusing on getting the current service up to scratch before you overload it with more traffic?

Besides, if anybody should get a free pass, it's me.

I was waiting on the Harrow to Watford platform the other day, cursing my luck as usual, when I heard the most pathetic announcement in recent time.

"Due to wet weather, there are severe delays on the Metropolitan line."

Gotta love London. The slightest whiff of a grey cloud and our entire transport infrastructure capitulates in a soggy computer-says-no heap.

I really should run for Mayor. The first thing I'd do for our great city is burn the south and east. We don't need it. The Olympics, you say? Sod that, you can do the javelin down Bessingby.

Oh and I suppose we need an Olympic village to house the different teams, do we? No we bloody don't. Just evacuate Hayes for the fortnight and you've got the perfect ethnic cesspit to house them all.

Anyway, I have positive feelings about 2008. Something tells me it's going to be one of the messiest years of my life. Maybe it's the fact that I'm officially halfway to forty. I've no time to waste, but plenty to get wasted. And yes, when this beer diet finally ceases to exist, I plan to double up on the regrettable bedroom experiences, boozy nights out and expansive dancefloor antics.

On the subject of beer diets, it's working to a certain extent. In fact, I've specifically chosen this night to post a blog - seeing as earlier, I proudly walked out of the Middlesex Arms having only tippled on a single pint. I'll decline comment on the rest of the week.

Needless to say, certain loopholes have been discovered in the beer dieting process. Such as, well most importantly, it gets thrown out of the window on weekends and days beginning with T.

Hey, I'm a slow starter.

Seriously though, I have managed to cut back on the ridiculous combo meals. After the hideous New Years Eve pictures, I had to.

When you look yourself in the mirror and ask that burning question, "Should I really be eating a Combo For Four on my own?", and the answer is a resounding "I wasn't even hungry, man", you know it's time to cut back.

Plus the financial implications are damning. I paid a tenner for that combo meal, and as I sit here - £113 in to my overdraft - I can't help but think that I'm a bit of a twat. How can anybody be so wreckless with their money?

Worse yet, I was four minutes late getting to Watford Station this morning. So what did I do? I used it as an excuse to get a cab to work and save me the forty minute walk! Another tenner down the drain without so much as a second thought. God only knows what damage I could do to my wallet when my birthday rolls around.

Have you ever had the urge to take up a jogging routine, only to avoid it on the principle that - God forbid - somebody might see you? That's about where my brother and I are at right now.

We both want to work off the turkey pounds (I keep using Christmas as an excuse, which is quite acceptable when they put up the bloody decorations in October. What's a man to think?). Yet despite sharing the same desire to get back in to shape, the smug glare of some random pedestrian is enough to deter us. I think what I truly need is a de-characterizing outfit so that I can run whilst pretending to be somebody else.

Gold spandex booty shorts should do the trick.

Is it so wrong that I'm jealous of a female friend who had the opportunity to buy shiny gold jeans? Not just gold, I should say. I could have ordered those from Next ages ago. But SHINY!

Shiny gold jeans and a big fat birthday present hint.

Now what was I saying?

Oh yes, if you read the last entry, you'll have heard about my dogging problem. I realise how bad that sentence sounds, but it's strictly a search engine related problem. Since mentioning North West London dogging hot spots, my blog has been bombarded with horny perverts who've found it through Google using those keywords.

So naturally, I took the opportunity to place a reference to Sexy Ruislip Manor Studs. Well, what do you know?

Dreams really can come true.

Dogging hot spots and my brief vacation.

I find it quite disturbing that my site draws so many visitors under the search terms cassiobury park dogging. When you run a lifestyle blog, you get a good idea of what people in your local area are searching for. But this particular blog seems to have become a haven for the filth of North West London.

I can only blame myself. They'd have nothing to find if I hadn't posted such utter seedy drivel in the first place.

Maybe if I SEO my posts with plenty of references to Sexy Ruislip Manor Studs, I'll start to reach my target market?

I can only dream.

What do you get your girlfriend if her birthday falls on Valentines Day?

Answer: DP.

On that welcoming note, yes, I've decided to emerge from my nest and post again. It's been a while so I'm feeling well travelled. Goodbye 2007, treat me tender 2008.

The New Year has taken its toll in more ways than one. I've piled on weight, partied myself senseless and blown away nights on dancing, drugs and drinking contests. Physically, I'm a bit of a wreck and thus embarking on a three week beer diet to get in shape for my birthday.

I say beer diet, what that really means is one binge per week at the max. I think my body needs a break. And six days out of seven on the wagon beats six days out of seven on the razzle.

The trouble is, having started the diet on January 2nd, I'd broken it by Saturday. I specifically said that I'd be on non-alcoholic drinks at the Middlesex Arms, but somehow got roped in to a game of - err - spin the coin? This promptly ended in Plan A (diet pepsi) being thrown out of the window for Plan Steve (7 pints in 2 hours).

Not the dousing my liver intended, but I'm back on the diet. Until tonight at least.

Get this for a story. A southern friend of mine has recently named her new pet after me, accidentally or not - I don't care. But guess what kind of pet it is? You know if it was a budgie, or a hamster, or even a snake...I'd be pleasantly flattered.

But it's a pig.

Martinez the Pig.

To make matters worse, another friend was playing Word Association the other day and my name was brought up. Nothing too bad about that, except the associated term was "Horrific fashion sense".

I mean, what the hell? Martinez The Pig with Horrific Fashion Sense? And people wonder why I've been feeling under the weather...

Walking down the high street on my way to lunch, I noticed the Evening Standard board had been updated. Apparently the McCanns are planning on making a movie for their missing daughter.

Is that so?

Tell me, do you think they'll delete the scene where Kate murders her? Will they confine Gerry burying the body to the extras on the special edition DVD? I want to know. Because right now, I wouldn't buy a cinema ticket for a movie where I know the ending's going to be absolute tripe.

Seriously though, it reeks of exploitation. A Hollywood sized motion picture isn't going to bring any new evidence to light. In fact, it's more likely to blur the issue with a biased interpretation of what happened that night.

People will think; "If it happened like that on the big screen, it must have happened like that in real life." So unless you produce the definitive feature-length Crimewatch special, you're doing more harm than good.