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.