Burn the catholic!

Wednesday morning started with a hangover and a bright sunny day; not my favourite combination.

But the throbbing I my head from too many Stellas was a minor inconvenience. The rain clouds were taking a break and there was a real feeling of joy in the air, similar to the day after the 1997 election. I just hope Obama lets us down more gently than Tony Blair did.

The day was a two parter. In the morning I was moderating a panel session on Web 2.0 at a major conference in the city. In the evening I was heading over to Muir Beach for a traditional November 5th tradition, burning a Catholic in effigy.

The morning went well. I moderated successfully, with only a few hiccups and my opener that it had been an historic 12 hours bought cheers and whoops. Obamamania is still running high.

But I was looking forward to the evening. There’s a sizable British contingent in San Francisco and even though I hadn’t been to a bonfire night in years I was looking forward to this one.

To those who don’t know November 5th is commonly known as Guy Fawkes, or Bonfire, Night, after an attempt in 1605 to blow up the English parliament. England was in the midst of religious wars that roared across Europe for hundreds of years – catholic against protestant.

In many ways the current situation is very similar to back then. Two religious groups who basically believe the same thing are fighting to the death over minor differences. Back then it was over accepting the primacy of the pope over the rights of common man. Now it’s fighting over whether Jesus was the son of god or just another prophet on a par with Moses or Mohammed.

Anyway, Fawkes was caught guarding gunpowder, the most potent explosives of the day, cached underneath the Palace of Westminster. The plan was to set it off and start a revolution. The plan was foiled by a leak in the team and Fawkes, after resisting torture for four days, was hung, drawn and quartered and began a UK tour, albeit in small pieces. He is remembered in the poetry:

“Remember, remember the fifth of November,
The gunpowder, treason and plot,
I know of no reason
Why the gunpowder treason
Should ever be forgot.”

It’s odd that someone who is ostensibly a terrorist should have achieved immortality in the public imagination not granted to kings or deserving leaders. But I have fond memories of bonfire nights; watching fireworks shooting into the sky, the warmth of the bonfire and roasting chestnuts with an old school master at Stancliffe in a metal dustbin lid. I even flew into London from a business trip once on November 5th and seeing fireworks from above was a memorable experience.

After a long and twisty drive down to the beach we stumbled out in the darkness towards the bonfire. It was quite a pile, something the builders were proud of, but a little pissed off as the beach officials had insisted it was out by 8:30pm and there was no way that pile of wood was going to burn in that time unless napalm was used.

There were also no fireworks but nevertheless it was a fun night out and after watching as five home-made guys were burnt we wandered along the beach watching the surf glistening in the light. The moon was out and it was a really lovely evening.

Then we wandered up to the Pelican Inn, an English themed hotel, for their buffet dinner. We feasted on fish and chips, bangers and mash and a shepherd’s pie that was a tad too heavy on the cheese and sweetcorn but very nice nevertheless. I also enjoyed a pint of ESB, bottled but still lovely and a good taste of home.

The hotel itself is the most English place I’ve found over here. This was partially down to the high number of Brits about but the place itself was very authentic. Lots of thick wood beams, horse brasses and rickety old stools gave a very nice atmosphere and the conversations on the football, why the MG is the best car in the history of motoring and why David Cameron is a slimy little toe rag reminded me strongly of home.

The end of a long road

It seems like the US presidential election has been going on for ever.

Serious campaigning has been going on for two years and quite frankly I’m sick of it all. The politicians must be too, and recently they all have a look in their eyes I see at day long press briefings that screams “OK, plaster on a smile and let’s go through this shit one more time.”

This is not my first election night and to be honest I was dreading it. In 2004 I was staying with my then girlfriend in New York. We went to an election night party and watched Kerry begin to sweep states and retired happily and drunkenly to bed.

The next morning I got up to make the tea and opened the laptop to find out that the world had four more years of the idiot in chief, America’s reputation in the world was massively damaged after electors confirmed the 2000 fiasco and the day was going to be spent talking to New Yorkers who were scared at what Bush was going to do to the city in retaliation.

The omens looked much better this time around. Obama’s people had run a good campaign and were outspending and out organising the opposition. Plus there were the candidates themselves.

Obama is a once in a generation public speaker, he really gets the hairs up on the back of the neck when he’s in full flow. Being a great speaker however doesn’t make one a good politician however. Enoch Powell was a great speaker, but a despicable race baiter as well, and Adolph Hitler apparently was inspirational in his native tongue.

What does make a good politician, and it’s something Obama has in spades, is intelligence. Unlike some in this country I don’t want a leader who would be a good person to have a beer with, although that’s always nice. I want the smartest person in the room, a philosopher king (or queen) who can make hard decisions even if they are unpopular and who thinks things through rather than bombing some brown people because it seems like a good idea at the time.

McCain is the best of a bad bunch to oppose him. An admirable service record, a genuine individual for most of his career and a man I admired until he started his run for the 2008 presidency. In 2000 he’d pulled no punches and fought for what he believed in, campaign finance reform that is still desperately needed, fairer taxation and American moral leadership. But in 2008 he binned all that and towed the party line, and lost all that he had gained in many people’s eyes.

There was also the Palin factor. McCain is over 70 and has had four bouts of cancer. To pick Palin as a running mate was a disastrous choice. Not only is she woefully inexperienced but her record as it stands isn’t good – turning budget surpluses into deficits, charging rape victims for evidence gathering and using official power to sort out family disputes. What few interviews she gave were painful to watch.

Now although the fact that Obama was running with a few points lead as we went into the final day I was far from confident. Opinion polls are a very inexact science and there are other factors to consider.

In the last eight years America has changing its voting system considerably. Electronic voting machines are widely used, and they are prone to failure and outright hacking. I’ve still got serious doubts about such systems. Paper and pencil ballots may seem primitive but they have definite advantages.

Firstly they are very difficult to fix. An electronic vote with no paper receipt is impossible to verify, where as paper ballots can be easily recounted. Secondly paper ballots are also very difficult to forge – you need an army of people writing fraudulent slips to swing an election and the chances of everyone keeping their mouths shut are minimal – as G Gordon Liddy said, the only conspiracy that works are when three people are involved and two of those are dead. Electronic votes can be forged with a couple of key strokes.

Then there’s the voter panic factor. In the UK in 1992 Labour was ahead in the polls but when people got to the actual ballot box they panicked over the thought of having to pay slightly higher taxes and voted in John Major. I was worried the same thing might happen, particularly with the ridiculous socialism campaign waged against Obama.

So let’s just say it was a tense day at work. We tried to get much of the day’s work done early, since the results from the East Coast wouldn’t start coming in until the middle of the afternoon. As the day wore on less and less work got done as everyone started hitting refresh on the results screens and waiting for the first states to be called.

The first result was the exit polls, but considering these had called the election for Kerry in 2004 they were taken with not so much a inch of salt as a tanker load of Saxa. They looked good for Obama, very good in fact. Almost too good…

As the day wore on the first calls started to come in, and news of each win was passed quickly round the office. People who barely spoke to each other on a normal day were eagerly sharing information, gossip and rumour.

By 5pm things were shaping up. In key states like Pennsylvania and Ohio Obama was looking very good and even Florida seemed to be in play. This was either shaping up to be a great result or a massive disappointment.

I left the office and hurried over to Si’s hotel, where we were going to watch the Daily Show’s roundup of the results over beer and pizza. By the time the (very funny) show had ended it looked like Obama had it in the bag. Ohio had turned blue and almost no Republican has ever become president without the state. We left for the Mad Dog in a state of high excitement.

As the taxi took us to the pub I began to notice more and more people in the streets, milling about and hanging around outside bars smoking, all with faces turned inwards at the TV screens within. Maybe I was imagining it but there seemed real tension in the air.

When we finally got there the pub was busier than I’d ever seen it. Not even standing room only, everyone was crushed in tight but the mood was jubilant. We’d missed it on the trip in but McCain had given a speech pretty much admitting defeat. People were hugging and kissing each other at the news and as we fought our way to the bar there was a pile of tips piling up for the staff (H made over $400 in tips that night).

I subsequently watched McCain’s speech on YouTube and it was him at his best. A few more like that on the campaign and Obama might not have won. It was gracious, honest and showed him to be a great patriot of the proper kind – not my country right or wrong, but genuine feeling for his land and a desire to make it better. His audience was much less gracious, and given some of the booing and shouting the Secret Service is going to be very busy protecting Obama.

Anyway, back in the bar and the news came on that Obama would give a speech at 9pm. Tensions mounted and everyone was glancing at the monitors to see if he was on the podium. When he stepped out from behind the curtains and strode forward the bar erupted into cheers, clapping and screams of delight. Then, as he stepped up to the bar the crowd fell silent and we strained to listen.

And then the sound failed, dead static filling the speakers. H behind the bar tried to fix it to shouts of frustration and what seemed like ages, but was just a few seconds, it came back on and the silence was deafening as we all heard his words.

What a speech it was. Inspiring to the extreme, measured and honourable in his treatment of McCain. He spoke to all Americans, no matter who they were, and asked that they join in making this country great again. I’m willing to bet there were even some hardened racists watching who found themselves getting a bit choked up. The crowd swung from silence to wild cheers during pauses and I found myself punching the air with delight and screaming with them.

But what really struck me was its realism. He didn’t sugar coat the tough road ahead. Sacrifices would need to be made. He’s coming into the worst economic crisis this country has faced in nearly a century, two wars are being waged and things are going to get bloody in the religious wars ahead.

But, as he repeated, “yes we can” a strange thing began to happen; we began repeating it too. Slowly, but with more and more people joining in, the refrain “yes we can” was repeated, again and again. It was kind of scary looking back on it, this is how mass movements begin, but it felt good at the same time.

As his last words faded away the bar erupted again but for myself I felt in a little island of calm. It was done, he was in, and America’s long national nightmare was over. While my friends and strangers both celebrated I retreated a little into myself and savoured the moment, and I’m not ashamed to say got a teeny bit moist around the eyes.

It’s a cliché to say that this was history in the making, but that’s because clichés only become that because they are the nuts and bolts of our language – they define the commonly expressed and felt. But there really was something special about this night.

Even three years ago if you’d have told me the next president wouldn’t be an old white man I’d have thought you were a hopeless idealist. OK, I’d have made an exception for Hillary Clinton, but she struck me as another Thatcher – a woman by genetics only. She’s the best president this country never had and frankly deserves to be in the White House but too many people hate her for that to happen. If this election proved anything it’s that sexism is stronger than racism in America.

But, as the crowd dispersed and we ordered another pitcher of beer, that warm fuzzy feeling lingered. The election is a turning point in American history. Not just the first black president, but a chance for America to regain its lost ground. Barring a revolution the next century belongs to China, America is at the zenith of its power and glory, but what a way to go out; holding true to the ideals it has for so long failed to live up to – that anyone can make it to the top if they have the intelligence and drive.

Bay Bridge

Went out tonight with glamorous friend Si, who’s over for the week covering a conference. I’m moderating a panel session for her so we went out for a business dinner (in expense account speak) to go over strategy.

Actually it was very good, the food and company excellent, and helped by views of the Bay Bridge, which to my mind is by far the most interesting bridge in the bay, and particularly pretty at night when it’s all lit up.

The Golden Gate Bridge gets far too much attention in my opinion. Yes, it’s an engineering masterpiece and without it San Francisco would be a non-entity dependent on a ferry services, like some godforsaken medieval village. Sure, without it people would pass the city by and go up the eastern side of the bay.

But it’s also really ugly in a lot of respects, particularly the off red colour and it’s so popular a suicide spot that the city has just voted to string a net underneath it to catch the depressed and give them a second chance to think it over before they crawl to the edge of the net and finish the job.

But the Bay Bridge is what connects the city to Berkeley, Oakland and, eventually, to the state capital Sacramento. It’s used by far more people (over a quarter of a million a day) and is something of a quiet engineering marvel itself. Not to mention that its real name is delightfully silly - The James "Sunny Jim" Rolph* Bridge - and thankfully is almost never used.

The tunnel connecting the two spans that bores through Yerba Buena Island is the largest bore tunnel in the world, at 76 feet (23 m) wide, 58 feet (18 m) high, and extends over half a kilometre. The contents of the tunnel were dumped on the other side of the island and now form the bedrock of the Treasure Island residential area, which has some of the best views in the city.

I briefly considered moving there myself, until some research showed that living on loose landfill in the middle of a frigid bay was not the smartest move in an earthquake zone, due to a phenomenon called ground liquefaction.

Because the bay is so deep, and the distance so great, entirely new engineering techniques were used to build it, and it is also twin level to allow two roadways, one outbound and one inbound. One of these suffered a partial collapse in the ’89 earthquake so the eastern span is being rebuilt, slowly but surely.

All in all it’s a fascinating, and very useful structure. But to the rest of the world it’s almost invisible, and Golden Gate is the icon of the city. It all seems a tad unfair, so if you do come to the city make sure you take a picture of it.


*James Rolph, the 27th governor of California and 18 year Mayor of the city, commissioned the bridge in 1931, but died before it was constructed. He also pardoned anyone involved in California’s last lynching – to my mind the bridge deserves a better name.

There’s only one Lewis Hamilton

Today was the last race of the Formula One (F1) season and in some ways this is a blessing; at least it felt that way when I dragged myself out of my warm bed at 8am to head down to the San Francisco F1 club bar to watch the race.

Sporting addiction is a curious thing and my excitement at today’s race puzzled me. I’ve never understood the almost religious following of teams that comes with football and while I can get excited about rugby it’s not to crushing if England crash out of a championship.

But F1 grabs me like no other sport. I don’t know what it is about it. The sheer engineering skill behind a car is something incredible – at full whack the engine pistons are firing off at 300 revolutions a second. I’m friendly with one of McLaren’s aerodynamicists and the computational power that goes into each body part is stunning. Plus if you’ve ever been in the garage with an F1 car with the engine running you’ll experience the sheer power of the thing; an engine that shakes your internal organs and screams like a Valkyrie chasing a barbarian soul.

Mum and Dad were both part time rally drivers, and out family once held a world speed record back in the 20s. I don’t like to think it’s genetic but one wonders.

Plus it’s still the sport of intervals. Yes, the engineering is critical but the sign of a truly great driver is that he can make a bad car beat a better one. James Hunt, for all his faults, could take a duff bit of kit and make it a winner. Senna had the skill, and so too, though it pains me to say it, did that cheat Schumacher. Anyway, onto the race.

Lewis Hamilton was in a good position to clinch the world championship and, as I’ve explained, I wouldn’t have missed this race for the world. When Mansell was in the same position I waited up until 4am to watch him in Australia and Lewis is a far more inspiring driver; more aggressive, better passing skills and he never blames the car, unlike walrus features.

Brazilian Felippe Massa was racing in his home grand prix and had to win to get the number one on his car next season, while Lewis just had to finish in fifth to get it. Given the shameful handicaps Lewis has had to suffer through from the Ferrari Insurance Association, sorry Fédération Internationale de l'Automobile, we were all expecting a conservative race with no risks taken.

The weather was uncertain for the race, wet at he start with the promise of more to come. This always makes for a more interesting race, since tire selection becomes critical. To raise the adrenaline further the petulant Alonso, who had promised to do whatever he could to stuff Lewis, was right behind the British driver.

As a side bonus the race was delayed for ten minutes because of the weather, allowing me to choke down a grapefruit juice and a breakfast burrito before the excitement started. As it turns out the key players made it through the dangerous first lap without incident. Sadly David Coulthard, on his last ever F1 race, was taken out after a shunt. A sad end to a successful but uninspiring career. DC had the makings of a great driver but he just didn’t want it enough in my opinion.

The race progressed and Massa streaked away, driving the race of his career. He and his team called it perfectly and there was no chance, barring engine failure, that he wasn’t going to win in front of his own crowd and become the new Senna for his countrymen.

Lewis however was uninspiring. He hung onto his position, smart tactics as this race wasn’t about the glory of the podium, but winning the war. The second half passed uneventfully but then, in the final seven laps, it started to rain again. My heart was in my throat; it had looked like Lewis had it but was I celebrating too early.

All the leading cars changed tires but Lewis, lying in fifth, was being seriously pressed by Sebastian Vettel, who was on stonkingly good form. The two tussled it out and I and my fellow Lewis fans (of which there are a lot, he’s really popular over here) screamed at the screen like it would make a difference.

Lewis got out of the pits ahead of Vettel but with only a few laps to go he slipped past him after Lewis went pear shaped while cornering, and into sixth – a losing position. I have to admit there was a certain amount of bad language on my part at this point. My mother would not have been proud.

Try as he might, and believe me he was trying, Lewis couldn’t get past the German driver. He was achingly close on the straights but the Toro Rosso was so fast through the corners that Lewis didn’t have a chance.

The laps came down, three, two and finally the last lap. It was going to be yet another loss for Lewis, after last season’s disappointment. I was crushed, screaming at the TV for a miracle. And then one came along.

Timo Glock, lying in fourth, was still on dry tyres. On the last lap the rain came down really hard and he, like every other driver on slicks, was losing 15 seconds a lap as they fought for grip. Having driven a proper F1 simulator I can tell you that in perfect conditions the cars are almost impossible to handle. In the wet, with the wrong tires, I’m amazed the drivers don’t end up dead in a second.

Glock was trying to hold it together but there was no hope for him. Vettel shot past him as he was wrestling the car around the third to last bend. Far ahead Massa crossed the finishing line, winner of the race and the world championship on current placement. The Ferrari garage, which housed Massa’s father, erupted in celebration.

Then Lewis, with just two corners to go, squeaked in between Glock and the corner ridges to clinch fifth. The cameras missed it and I must confess I was too busy screaming to notice but a few seconds later he crossed the line and Hamilton P5 flashed up on the screen.

If this was a movie then the room would have fallen silent before erupting. However, back in the real world the Ferrari supporters were cheering and toasting each other while the Lewis crew were standing in shock. Then the room really erupted. The Ferrari boys were crying foul, we were screaming with joy. The next few minutes were spent shouting with joy and hugging complete strangers. Screw you Mosley and Eccleston, you tried to hold him down but failed.

In the post-race press conference Massa was a true sportsman. It must have been tough for him, having a few minutes of thinking he’d won the season only to be pipped at the post. He comported himself with honour and I found myself hoping he’d get the crown on a future season. Nothing shows someone’s character as how they face defeat.

We broke out the drinks and headed out to party. The grin didn’t come off my face all day. We headed up to my local and carried on the celebrations. It was a day to remember.

Halloween

Halloween isn’t really a big thing in the UK, or at least it didn’t used to be. Not so in the United States.

Back in the UK the only thing to mark it as different from any other night is that occasionally you’ll get a gang of small children asking for sweets with menaces (or trick or treating as it’s officially known). It’s also the unofficial start of fireworks week, which in itself is not a recognised holiday but is nevertheless full of bangs and whizzes as the British public takes advantage of its two week ability to buy fireworks.

Things are very different here – Halloween is huge and nowhere more so than San Francisco. Most people will have at least one pumpkin on display for example. The food shops stock huge piles of these oversized squash, which are hollowed out and have a variety of designs carved into their faces and backlit.

Trick or treating is another major thing, but the kids really go for it when it comes to costumes. I was nearly knocked over on the stairs to my flat by a miniature Spiderman with full face mask and pseudo-muscles hopped up on candy and heading out for more.

But he wasn’t alone, almost everyone out was in some kind of costume. I went for the understated look, with a tasteful shirt patterned with dancing skeletons but felt distinctly underdressed surrounded by devils, angels, cops, nurses, Sarah Palins and one convincing Hunter S Thompson. Top prize to a chap dressed as the powerlifter from Aliens.

We went to a few clubs for some mild techno and greeted some friends of friends, including one chap having trouble on the dancefloor due to a frankly ill-advised golf ball costume.

More rain

OK, I’m bored with this now, bring back the sunshine please.

In the wet

Autumn has come to San Francisco, and with it the first serious rains since I got here.

As I’ve mentioned rain is not a usual occurrence in my limited experience here and having a day of it was a bit of a shock. After nearly twenty years in London you’d think I was used to it by now but after five months of sunny weather you kind of get used to it.

However, one has to look on the bright side. California is in the middle of a drought, so it’s to be welcomed. Plus every drop of rain that falls on the city means snow for skiing in Tahoe after Christmas. Besides, its very novelty makes the rain kind of fun.

Pub crawl

Day two or R’s visit and we headed down to the tourist mecca that is Fisherman’s Wharf.

To get there involved a cable car ride, something I insisted R try, since one cannot come to SF and not ride the rails at least once. Maybe it’s the boy in me but I defy anyone not to hang off the side of a trolley car run with 100 year old technology heading down a 45 degree slope and not feel a thrill. I imagine steam train enthusiasts get the same sort of feeling but we were better dressed and more socially functional.

While we were waiting in the (long) queue to get on the cable cars we met up with a trio of West Country boys who were in the line in front of us. They were in good spirits and explained that they were long time tourists here; every year landing on the east coast and driving across the country to get to San Francisco via various friends.

However, be careful of whom you talk too. One turned out to be a bit nutty, telling us how Jesus had cured his kidney disease and how he longed to move out here permanently if only god would call him. Nice chap, but nuttier than squirrel droppings in some respects.

Now basically San Franciscans seem to have decided to concentrate all the tourists in one place, either to avoid confrontation with the locals or possibly in the hope that Al-Qaeda will set off a truck bomb and just get grockles.

So we wandered among the tourists, many of whom were dressed as thought the world was blind and spoke as thought the rest were deaf. We saw the sea lions (smelly but fun) and old ships tied up on the wharf before heading off to an official pub crawl.

An official pub crawl seems like a contradiction in terms. Usually pub crawls are impromptu events; a gang of mates getting together and painting the town red, or at least an interesting shade of diced carrot.

Here you got a wrist band which gave you reduced price drinks in various bars. After following the pack to a succession of increasingly crowded bars we decided we were too old for this stuff and headed to my local for a final pint before bed. Tomorrow R had to be off home and I had a major conference to prepare for.

Boys are back in town

Good news this weekend; R, my oldest friend from university is in town. He’s a BSD (big swinging dick) in the city and has been doing big financial things in New York all week before heading over to SF for a weekend’s R&R prior to heading back to London.

R’s been a mate ever since I showed his spotty first year incarnation to his room in halls of residence. For the record I was a spotty second year at the time. But we bonded over mutual liking of Warren Zevon, drinking stunning amounts of whatever was available (including my home brew which I’m sure chemical weapons manufacturers around the world would love to get their hands on) and a belief in the fundamentals, if not the practice, of socialism.

Well, we’ve both passed a lot of water since then and both of us have swelled in body and slightly in mind but have remained firm friends. He’s helped me with my relationship woes and I danced at his wedding and now am doing what I can for the divorce while his wife dances on his heart with her stylish yet affordable boots.

So I determined that the weekend was going to be about fun and after he turned up at the house (in a Bentley no less) I dumped his bags and we went out on the town. A dinner of Kobe beef at an expensive restaurant was followed by hooking up with an interesting lass who led us to a karaoke bar to meet her friends.

It was rather a fun evening, but I broke the cardinal rule of karaoke, or rather the two cardinal rules. First off, never sing a song you really like. Let’s face it, to get up in front of a room of strangers and belt out a tune you’ve got to be fairly wankered and so you’re not going to be on your best form.

However, deep down you know you’re never going to be able to listen to the track you chose without hearing your performance in the brain’s internal jukebox so never, never pick a song you like. I broke this and sang an old Frank Sinatra favourite ‘One for my baby’, which sums up so many evenings in dive bars with friends.

Quite frankly I died on my arse. Flat singing, mumbled lyrics and less skill at following the tune than Mark Thatcher’s ability to follow a simple road map. It was a painful performance that would have had my old choirmaster stabbing pencils into his ears to avoid hearing.

The second rule of karaoke is always choose something the audience can sing along to. As R pointed out, picking a popular classic like ‘American Pie’ means the audience will join in and hopefully drown out the garbage coming out of your mouth. Given that most of the people in the bar weren’t even glints in the milkman’s eye when Old Blue Eyes was crooning was, in retrospect, a mistake.

Afterwards we fell into a cab and headed home to a dubious night’s sleep. R and I haven’t shared a room in years (he has a lovely four bedroom place in London) and I’d forgotten what his snoring was like. Hearing the volcanic rumblings from the sleeping bag at the foot of the bed woke me up at 4am and as soon as I find a place to host the sound file I’ll post it. Now I know I snore on occasion too but this was really something.

Dating etiquette

Nothing makes you feel like a stranger in a strange land like dating.

Dating is a minefield no matter where you are in the world. Behaviour that seems normal when you were growing up would get you imprisoned (Saudi Arabia), slapped (certain parts of mid-west America), or considered a wuss or suspected homosexual for not trying hard enough (Italy).

I’ve finally got down to some serious dating over here and the results have been confusing to say the least. The dates themselves have been very pleasant, laughter was plentiful, eye contact used sparingly but with effect and some socially acceptable arm stoking and the like exchanged.

But the follow up is the confusing bit. My view is that you have a window of about 48 hours at most to get back in contact with either an “Excellent night, now are you fixed for next Thursday” or a “You’re a lovely person but…”

However those rules don’t seem to apply over here. Call me Mr Picky (and some do) but a delay of five days either says “Not that keen but you’re a good backup in case Sven, the Swedish biker, doesn’t learn to commit” or “I’m just not that into you.”

Not so it seems. Instead there is a measure of coolness in getting back in contact that seems to be used of an indicator of how busy, and therefore important, you are. It’s very confusing.

Oh for the days of primary school. You knew where you were then. Either you held hands at playtime and sent letters emblazoned with hearts and the eponymous SWALK (sealed with a loving kiss – or more accurately a chocolaty tongue from one too many fun sized Mars bars) or you pointedly ignored each other and got kicked in the shins occasionally.

Even my clubbing days were easier than this. You went out with a bunch of mates, danced for six hours straight with a variety of women to brain-numbingly loud techno or happy house while altering your internal body chemistry. You then saw who you woke up with the next morning, and after working out if you’d actually done anything, agreed to meet up later. Sounds hit or miss but it was good for some very nice relationships.

But no, now we’re adults and it seems politics has to be key to relationships. I can’t help feeling the world would be a much happier place if we all dropped our inhibitions and were honest with each other.

To tea, or not to tea

As regular readers will know I have been constantly deprecatory of the ability of our American cousins to make a good cup of tea.

Well, if every force has an equal and opposite reaction then Samovar is the opposite to the warm cup of water and Lipton’s ‘tea’ bag that constitutes most American attempts at a good brew up.

Samovar is a place that not only takes its tea seriously, but takes it way too seriously. How can one take tea too seriously the connoisseurs among you may question? Well charging $65 for a one person pot is one example – no tea is that good I’m afraid. Things can only be so good and charging more for something doesn’t automatically make it better (California’s wine merchants please take note).

But what really cracked me and my tea drinking partner up was the descriptions of the tea itself. Now these were necessary, since I’d not heard of some of the more obscure Oolongs and herbal mixes, some of which are unique to the tea house itself. But describing Earl Grey as ‘zesty’ and ‘vibrantly exciting’ is to stretch the truth like Jade Goody’s hipsters.

Earl Grey is not an exciting tea. As my drinking partner pointed out it tastes like a cross between your granny’s perfume sachet and potpourri. It’s the tea equivalent of Madonna; occasionally likeable but by in large over-hyped and underperforming.

That said the teas we chose were excellent. My oolong was perfectly prepared and premoistened with honey to add sweetness to a strong black brew, while my partner’s cuppa was equally well prepared. Add in a delicious warm salmon quiche and cheeky birds hopping closer for nibbles and it was a very enjoyable afternoon.

Tofu

As I’ve mentioned before vegetarianism and I have a hands-off relationship, much like Katie Holmes and Tom Cruise I imagine.

So it was some trepidation last night that I sampled the bowl of warm tofu placed in front of me. I was out to dinner and this place had come highly recommended as good Japanese fare. As we were both sushi junkies then it looked like an excellent choice and tofu is something of a speciality of the house.

Now I think tofu always caused a mental problem because the stuff you buy in Britain seems to be about as tasty as pencil erasers, with roughly the same consistency. Either that or it’s so rubbery you might as well be chewing badly cured Pirellis.

I’d always assumed its invention was due to famine and soy milk, which is to real milk what the Sinclair C5 is to an Aston Martin, was the only thing available.

But this bowl was a revelation. It was soft and creamy, with a delicious sauce that managed to be both sweet and yet subtly savoury. Add into that the great company and live scallops with soy and wasabi and it was a meal to remember.

Bloggers about

Another old friend from the UK came into the office today. J and I worked together a decade ago and while I left the dark world of PR he has climbed the greasy pole and is now a bigwig in-house guy.

So when his PR company suggested a meeting I jumped at the chance. We dispensed with the work side of the briefing in half an hour and then devoted the rest of the time to catching up. It’s fun to see where everyone is and compare war stories and as he used to work with Si I took him down to meet her.

It was Si’s last day and so we chilled out at the conference awards dinner before she had to get a red eye back to New York. Then she’d secured up passes to the VIP post-awards party and so we headed off to a sweaty nightclub in the heart of SOMA.

J and I discussed the things men do after the second vodka and tonic (marriage, life and the eventual heat death of the universe) and then as we were making our way through the crowd I ran into a blogger I’ve been reading for years, Girl with a One Track Mind.

Now I may not agree with everything she writes but she turns a great turn of phrase and deserves credit for having the guts to write about topics not usually covered before the internet, and for getting a book deal out of it and not turning in the usual piece of drivel bloggers have been known to do in such circumstances. I wrote a couple of pieces about her, particularly after she was disgracefully outed and it was good to meet briefly in the flesh before she was swarmed by fans.

Miss Fabulous

Tuesday and the welcome news that Si was over from New York for a conference.

Great to see her again and we had a high old time crashing the MySpace afterparty. Was a lot of fun and I met some interesting people.

It’s customary at these parties to have a ‘celebrity’ DJ, and this one was no exception. Samantha Ronson, Lindsay Lohan’s girlfriend was taking the stand and to my surprise she actually played some records.

To explain, the rise of the celebrity DJ has nothing to do with a sudden interest in music among the glitterati and everything to do with technology. So called DJs like Peaches Geldof, Kate Lawler and similar oxygen thieves buy in premixed dance sessions on a laptop, come onto the podium, press a button and then preen for the cameras/drink themselves insensible/try and get off with rich footballers.

Ronson did actually play and mix her own records, and deserves credit for doing so. The only problem was she wasn’t very good at it. Some of her mixes were jerkier than a Thunderbirds puppet and while scratching is a good skill for a DJ did she have to do it every single track?

Anyway, a good night was had by all and we decamped to taxis and headed home. Great to have Si back, she’s the life and soul of a party.

Anger

Dragged myself down to the Formula One this morning but after the massively disappointing race last tie I wasn’t keen.

It didn’t help that the venue was in chaos. The big screen TV had gone down, and there was no food since the cook had been taken to hospital – probably with food poisoning if his bacon is anything to go by. Still, had a couple of Virgin Mary's (on the advice of my doctor in France) and settled down to watch.

As it turns out the race was spectacular. Lewis lost the lead early on but kept fighting all the way, staying within a couple of seconds of Kimi for the whole race. Then a few laps before the end the rain came down and Lewis showed hat a rainmeister he is. The cars were driving very skittishly and the lead swapped places three times before Kimi crashed out and Lewis clinched it.

But then the news came through that he’d been docked 25 seconds! The room was in uproar. To explain Lewis had been forced off the road by Kimi and cut the corner of a chicane to get back onto the track an had gained the lead. As the rules dictate he then eased off and let Kimi pass so no advantage was gained before repassing on the next corner.

If the race authorities are going to let Ferrari get away with Murder (Kimi wasn’t even bothering to make some corners and was using runoff tracks regularly once the rain started) then I wonder if F1 is going to remain worth watching.

Muzzy week

Sorry for the lack of posts but have been doing an intensive anti-histamine routine to get rid of the mossie bites.

I don’t know what weird quirk of personal biochemistry has made me so susceptible to bites but it’s a pain in the arse. I get a cone of raised flesh about the size of a fifty pence or dollar coin which itches incessantly. Scratch one and the whole thing goes nuclear.

They’re down to minor irritations now but the anti-histamine regimen has left me firing on three cylinders and with the tendency to drift off at odd moments. I’m cutting down the dose tomorrow all things being equal but it has not been a pleasant week.

Sausalito art festival part two

Got to the festival a bit late today, as I felt a lie in wasn't out of order.

Not the smartest of moves, since I woke up covered in mossie bites. Somehow I'd got it into my head that mosquitoes weren't going to be a problem here but woke up with nine bites, including one on the heel of my right hand from one bloody-minded one who obviously fancied a challenge.

Anyway, dosed up on antihistamine and got to the stage with 10 minutes to spare. No chance of a good seat by that time so stood up front and slapped on the factor 30. No matter, Richard Thompson was well worth it. He's not known as Britain's finest acoustic guitarist for nothing and he didn't disappoint.

Reading back over yesterday's post I was possibly a little harsh on Al Stewart but is guitar work is to Thompson's what Kitty is to a Siberian tiger. Thompson is still blindingly quick on the frets, takes chords from all musical styles and blends them into music that ranges from angry to very, very funny.

He's also got the banter, opening by remarking that the crowd looked very happy, just the right side of smug, and recounting earlier trips to Sausalito with the hope that the waitresses in the Hotel Triton were still as accommodating.

But the music was the thing, and for 90 minutes he played a good mix of new stuff and the classics. All in all a masterful performance.

To top the day off I wandered round the fair and got caught by a sculpture. I don't really collect art but every once in a while I'll see something and just become entranced. Some hard negotiation followed but I'm now a proud owner of a Lockwood carving that overlooks the bed.

Then it was off to J's for a barbecue. He and his wife have a lovely apartment overlooking the bay and we sat on the deck, drank wine and ate good food before catching the bus home. Work is going to be a trial tomorrow.

Art & Al

Over Labour Day weekend the town of Sausalito on the north of the bay holds an art festival, now over 50 years old.

Now I wouldn’t make myself out to be an art buff, more of someone who knows what he likes. However S, who I shared a house with for over a year, is an art genius and has brought me someway up to speed, or at least knowledgeable enough about the Situationists so as not to sound a total ignoramus.

But it wasn’t art which drove me to get the extortionate ferry ticket to toe town, nor pay for the $30 weekend pass. Instead it was music. Four bands a day play at the festival and by lucky chance two of them are old favourites of mine; Al Stewart and Richard Thompson.

Today it was Al’s turn and he didn’t disappoint too much. I first came across him on my first holiday alone at the tended age of 13. We were in the coach on the way to Verbier for a week’s skiing and the driver put ‘Broadway Hotel’ on the stereo. I liked it so much I bought the album, and then most of the rest of them as well – even the one described by Melody Maker as “Boring old hippy bangs on about his obsession with history.”

He hasn’t had a hit since the 70s and is now well over 60 himself (and was wearing a HUGE pair of trousers - why is it the older men get the higher their waistbands?) but still put on a good show. He can’t hit the long notes any more and most of the more intricate guitar work is done by an on stage collaborator, in this case Dave Nachmanoff. But the banter between songs is nearly as good as the music.

As for the music, well he made some good picks. Some of the stuff he's put out in the last 40 years has been frankly rubbish. Dirges about ex-girlfriends in the 60s, quite a lot of good stuff in the 70s and then the move to historical folk music in the 80s and beyond. As he said himself today historical folk music is one of the most unlucrative musical genres but he's still hoping Mariah Carey will try it for a concept album.

Anyway, lots of people liked the show, including a few who obviously had no idea who he was. There was also some quite embarrassing dancing at the front, the sort of 60s snake hands intertwining in the air stuff that you can pull off as a lithesome young thing but starts to look bad in your 50s and 60s. An astonishing amount of tie die showed up as well, and not being worn ironically :)

After the gig I took some pictures and wandered around the show munching on an enormous smoked turkey leg and checking out the stalls. Had a chat with some of the artists (once I’d washed my hands) and then went into town for a drink with a fellow Brit friend from Yelp.

We sank a few pints, and then a few more, before having one for the road. He invited me to a barbeque he and his wife are holding tomorrow so after Richard Thompson plays his set I’ll wander on up.

Slow Food

Saturday is usually food day in the city – there’s the farmer’s market at the ferry building and it’s one of the few days when most of us have time to cook.

However, today the Slow Food Nation fair hit town and it was time to go and sample some of the wares available. 50,000 people are expected to attend and the city’s been gearing up for it for months. Part of the Civic Centre has been turned into an organic garden (see photo), there’s a music festival and stalls are packing out the city offering food you may not have tasted before.

The Slow Food movement started in Italy in the 1980s as a conglomeration of environmental and leftist thought on the nature of food itself. It builds seed banks, promotes non-standard varieties of fruits and vegetables and lobbies for higher food standards.

I took time to sample a number of new things, including an excellent wild rice salad, orange sherbet ice cream and picked up some slow roasted almonds for later. The tastes were superb and it made a very nice day out in the sun.

Hot stuff

San Francisco may be a food haven but there’s one cuisine I’ve lusted over but couldn’t seem to find a good example of – Indian.

I came to good Indian food very late in life. Ten years of enforced eating of boarding school curries, complete with apples and sultana, left me with a horror of them and I avoided anything curried for nearly 20 years.

It’s a pity, because getting lashed up and going for a curry is a popular pastime, and one brilliantly sent up by the Goodness Gracious Me crew in their sketch ‘Going for an English’.

Then, a few years ago the Masala Zone opened up down the street from work. J and I would meet up about once a month to catch up and have lunch, usually in whatever was new in our area, and the Masala Zone was mentioned. So I agreed, with a certain amount of dread.

But to my surprise I really enjoyed it, and felt none of the queasiness that had accompanied previous attempts to sample curry in the past. The think dhals were delicious and while some stuff is still not to my taste I began carefully sampling a wide range of dishes.

So when I met up with C and his Indian friend we were going to go out for a Chinese but when he suggested a curry house that had been highly recommended I jumped at the chance.

The New Delhi curry house is a wonder. It looks just like a good curry house in the UK, if said place had the money to do the job of decoration properly. Ceiling fans spin merrily, carvings adorn the walls and the serving platters are mostly authentic.

The food is superb, even if the other two thought it wasn’t spicy enough. My lamb rogan josh was perfectly; a dark, rich tomato sauce with well cooked chunks of lamb floating through. The nan was delicious, moist enough to tear well and puffed up like little spicy pillows of delight. Don’t even get me started on the poppadoms.

Add in Kingfisher lager and excellent staff and it was a great night. The other two were on for a late one so I bid them goodbye. Hopefully C and I will meet up sooner next time, six years has been too long.

Friends reunited

I was on my way out on Tuesday night when the phone rang. It was an old friend from school, C, who was in town and wanted to know if I fancied a drink.

That night was out of the question but we met up tonight. C and I were at school from 16-18 and were goodish friends; both class jokers in our way, taking the same A levels and writing for the school magazine. He wrote an excellent piece about elves in the North Pole labouring in inhuman conditions under the evil Santa ‘Claus’ Barbie while I concentrated on cynically humorous advice columns.

Anyway, in the early 2000s Friends Reunited came along and we got back in touch. He was in the technology field like me and we met up for a drink that ended up morphing into dinner, more heavy drinking, an unsuccessful attempt to chat up two air hostesses and me pouring him into a taxi at 3am, only to hear the next day that his wife had locked him out of the house.

We sent each other the occasional email but when Facebook came along we got back in contact and exchanged numbers, thus the call.

It was good to catch up and as the drinks flowed we found out a lot about what else had happened to the class of ’87. An astonishing number of classmates had left Derbyshire for a while and then come back to live. One is a landlord of one of our old drinking haunts, another teaches at a nearby college (and married one of his students!) while yet another was the town librarian until it was shut down.

However, a few of us have flown the coop. One old chum in currently in Spitsbergen, high up in the Arctic Circle, studying polar bears. C himself ran a telecommunications company in Outer Mongolia for a while. Another copped a packet in the first Gulf War. It’s amazing how people get around.

All in all a very good night, only slightly soured by finding out that C got off with a girl I had lusted after two years at the leaving disco. No matter, it was over 20 years ago and we’ve all passed a lot of water since then and it was a damn good night, so we’re meeting again tomorrow.

Boredom

Sunday and it’s another grand Prix day. I got up bright and early and headed down to the diner to watch the race.

Sadly it was one of the most boring races of the season. Valencia is a new course, a street circuit, with all of the disadvantages of Monaco and none of the advantages. It ended up as a dismal parade lap and the top three places remained unchanged from start to finish.

Another disappointment was that D and his girlfriend didn’t make it. I was looking forward to picking his brains about wineries to go and visit.

One bright spot, I won first place in the raffle. I am now the proud(ish) owner of a signed photo of the start of the last race by one of the official Formula One photographers. Not sure if it’s good enough to get framed but I’ll decide that later in the season. If I win more eBay might be an option.

M&S have moved on and the house seemed very quiet so I played with the cat and read. Then everyone else got home and we all caught up before getting an early night, tomorrow the weekend ends after all.

Guests and grapes

One of the British hack contingent is staying over for an extra week and her husband arrived yesterday. They’re staying with me for a few days so early Friday evening was spent frantically tidying up and cleaning.

Today however we got up early and headed up to wine country for a day’s sipping and (not) spitting.

The difference between the city and outside is amazing. The top of the Golden Gate Bridge was wreathed in fog as we drove underneath it but within minutes we’d emerged into bright (and burning) sun. From the rest of the day barely a cloud was seen and the temperature stayed in the upper 90s until dusk.

We took in a couple of Sonoma wineries (vineyard just isn’t said over her it seems), the Ravenswood and Imagine. We got lucky at Ravenwood, they were having a party and for $15 we could taste as many wines as we wanted and got to keep the glass – bargain. There was a good collection of Zinfandels and a very nice port but none of them really grabbed me.

Next stop was Imagine, just down the road. This had a much broader selection and I was very taken with a couple of the wines. Ended up blowing the budget and getting two bottles, one nice, one for special occasions, and a half bottle of port.

Imagine also has a policy of commissioning artists to do one off labels, and has a gallery of the best of the bunch. There are some stunning pieces of work there.

We stopped off at Napa after a hair-raising drive through the mountains. Normally we wouldn’t have driven so far but S decided the GPS was wrong, drove us in the wrong direction and we ended up at a dead end leading up a mountain.

After an excellent dinner, at which I had ostrich for the first time in ages and we shared another bottle of wine S, our designated driver, was getting sleepy so we headed home. After an hour trying to find a parking spot we made our way, in some cases unsteadily, to bed. A very nice day.

Quizzers with attitude

OK, maybe I am getting geekier.

Today we took part in a quiz organised by the hosts, basically covering technical knowledge. As you can see from my expression, we won. My colleague R is wearing his war face, but he's a sweetheart deep down.

To my surprise we won the competition, so a prize will be winging its way to my office. It will also mean we shall have to defend our title next year, for honour's sake. Well, let's not beat about the bush, for competition's sake too - I get very competitive at times.

Geek fest

Day one of the official conference and it was just as I’d imagined – fun and reassuring.

Fun because learning new stuff, and taking the piss out of people who think they can fool you by recycling old stuff, is my idea of a good time at work. Not the only way to have a good time, but let’s face it, if you’re paid to do it so much the better.

Reassuring because every time I worry about being too geeky I come to somewhere like this and realise I have a long, long way to go. When you see lines of excited techies trying to cut in line for a seminar on “Mechanical, thermal and reliability study of a non-lidded processor in a low profile socket*” you realise that while it takes all sorts to make the world go round, you are thankfully not one of them.

Still and all there were slight irritations to the day. Top of the list is overenthusiastic public relations folks. Guys, it’s a new chipset, not a cure for cancer.

* Actual title

Beware Sake

Spent Sunday out at Coit Tower, the highest publicly accessible point in the city centre. I was showing a couple of my friends around and decided to do it literally.

Coit Tower is on the peak of Telegraph Hill and looms over Fisherman’s Wharf. It has survived pretty much everything the geographically unstable city can throw at it and was built by the delightfully eccentric* Lillie Hitchcock Coit.

Coit was a card; wearing trousers when such behaviour was thought shocking, gambling and smoking cigars and generally scandalizing society one hundred years ago. She was also an honorary fire-fighter, and commissioned a very butch statue to them in Washington Square Park.

It’s a lovely building, made even better by a huge display of murals featuring life in California, done in a very nice 1930’s style.

Then we wandered around North Beach, then down to China town and across to the foodie heaven that is the Ferry Building. Then back to the hotel to meet the others for dinner.

We were taken to a very upscale Japanese restaurant - definitely an OPM (other people’s money) place. I later found out it cost our host $400 a head - and the waiter agreed to add a few covers to the receipt so the host wouldn't get fired.

There the night was filled with sake, sushi, sake, Kobe beef and a few more sakes. I didn’t realise quite how drunk I was until I got outside and the air hit me.

This morning was very grim. All in all not the state to meet my new boss in.

*ie a bit mad but with plenty of money

Old friends

There’s a major technology conference on next week so a lot of British friends are over.

It’s really good to see R, I and M and M again. You don’t realise how much you miss people until you can’t see them every week and it was superb to see them again. We caught up on gossip, shared stories and generally chewed the fat.

I’m growing accustomed to the American way of life but there’s a part of me that will always be British, and they exemplify why. Frank, and frankly obscene at times conversations, chuckles over times past and plans for the future. Damn good to see them again.

Lurgy

Today started off badly and got worse.

Woke up at 9:30 with a killer headache and aching joints. My body was trying to tell me something and the message was relax.

I think I slept 18 hours today. It’s not a virus, just that I’ve not so much been burning the candle at both ends but taking napalm to it.

Paying for torture

Today I joined a gym, not the first time I’ve done this but it’s a curious feature of modern mankind that we do so.

Two hundred years ago our ancestors would have laughed it the idea of paying to work out. Life was tough enough as it was. Now we pay to torture ourselves, or get fit which is what it’s all about.

It used to be part of my contract that we got free membership of the local gym if we went more than 25 times a year. That was great, but the new contract didn’t include it, so membership lapsed.

As my friend S reminds me once you reach 40 the body is as good as it’s going to be so it’s time to get in shape before the great downhill road starts. In fact, sod downhill, I intend to get better and break the trend.

So the local YMCA looks good. Golds gyms are a gay cruising spot, Crunch has a really bad reputation and the local place has a pool so I can get in 20 laps before work and still have hand muscle control for good typing.

Plus, even though the gym is rather shabby it’s still more advanced than London’s facilities. There’s a computer system that monitors how you use the machines and gives you points for doing it right. Get enough and there’s a free massage at the end of it or discounts on membership. A good incentive.

Is it safe?

It’s been over six months since my last dental appointment. Time for a clean, even if I have to pay for it myself.

The reason for this is Homeland Security is still checking to see I’m not a member of the Al Qaeda middle class white atheist division and are backchecking my credentials before I get a Social Security number. Without that my dental insurance doesn’t kick in.

Nevertheless two pints of tea a day were leaving me with tooth strains that in California signal ‘homeless slob’ and I’m conscious that you only get one set of adult knashers in a lifetime. So I looked in the paper, found a trustworthy dentist, and booked an appointment.

I hate going to the dentist. It’s like vaccinations or giving blood, essential but highly unpleasant. A British dentist, who I believe eventually was struck off, took out all my milk molars in one operation and I still have occasional nightmares about a sweet smelling rubber mask coming down on my face and waking up spitting blood and having to learn to chew with my incisors.

Add into that Larry Olivier’s performance in Marathon Man and if they’d asked me “Is it safe?” I’d have been out there so fast you’d have seen the red shift.

Since then prudence has demanded I learn to live with dentists and I’ve had some great ones. An Aussie who was cheerfully grim (“Chew ice with that lower molar and I’ll see you back here in tears”) and a mad Brazilian who promised such a good clean my girlfriend would kiss her fingers.

But they pale into comparison with the practice that did me today. Not only was the lass who did the hard work an absolute gem with great taste in classical music* but it turns out the head dentist was an ex public school boy (Stowe – damn good rugby team) and understood the limits of British dentistry.

So now I have a lovely clean set of teeth and I had an appointment that didn’t leave me putting fingernail marks in the armrests. A full review is here and I’ll be back once it’s determined I’m not a threat to national security.

*Bach’s methodical and predictable music is perfect for controlling panic.

Of cats and men

A quiet start to the weekend. The rest of the household was away so it was just me and Kitty* in the house. It was all in all rather relaxing.

Kitty has gradually got comfortable with me nowadays. In the beginning she would just hide under the sofa but gradually she’s become accustomed to me and now complains noisily if she doesn’t get five minutes of magic fingers backrubs once a day.

I say she, but actually Kitty’s a bloke cat, albeit missing the requisite nadgers. His owner/slave, for we are all slaves to cats, E thought he was a bitch (in the biological sense of the word) at first and was a little put out to discover he was a tom so had him fixed and raised him as a female cat.

This makes Kitty a tad gender confused, and pisses off her vet a lot when E refers to Kitty with the feminine pronoun. Still and all she’s a lovely cat, with beautiful tiger stripe markings and an intelligent temperament.

I’ve said it before but dogs are dumb and loyal while cats are smart but independent. I’m convinced there’s an evolutionary argument for this. Early on in the domestication cycle mankind started hunting cooperatively with dogs so loyalty became a key survival trait and keeping them fed was a priority.

But cats became (semi) domesticated simply because they were easy to tolerate and kill vermin. You didn’t train them, they hung around because houses were largely warm and dry and vermin flocked to them. It wasn’t until a few hundred years ago that people even considered cat food – that was what mice and rats were for.

In my youth I spend the odd winter week or two on a friend’s farm helping out. P’s farm, or rather smallholding, showed this difference very well. The dogs slept in the house and were devoted to, and dependant on, the family - with the exception of their golden retriever who would pop down to the pub every evening because the landlord took a shine to her and put out some beer in a bowl each night.

The cats by contrast lived in the barn and were semi-feral. We had to collect the hen’s eggs as soon as possible in the morning otherwise they’d crack and eat them. Try and pick one up and you’d be straight down to casualty to get your fingers stitched together.

Kitty retains her feral heritage but is trainable. She’s noted that any claw swipe brings about a 24 hour cessation of stroking privileges. Now all I need to do is train her to get on the sofa rather than skulking around my feet.

But there’s always the feeling that if someone invented the paw operated tin opener mankind would lose the cat completely and supermarkets would suffer catlifting rates that would make today’s losses to humans look like a golden age.

But they are seductive little devils, who get under our skin. XKCD has it right on this.

* Photo caption - "Make sure you get my best side."

Quiet night out

Friday night is DYL night at the moment.

DYL stands for Destroy Your Liver, basically it’s a bunch of people from Yelp meeting in a bar and drinking, chatting, laughing and indulging in some light flirting.

It’s not a bad way to spend an evening all in all. Meet some interesting people, visit some new bars and a good time is usually had by all. Well, no fights as far as I know and a couple of couples have got together at them.

Tonight’s was sparsely attended and with a sex imbalance that reached 100 per cent very quickly. I called it a night early and went home to bed; I was very tired.

The reason for this tiredness was that I’d had a breakfast briefing for work with a big PC vendor. The actual briefing was set to begin at 8am. Eight sodding am – it’s just not civilised. Usually I laugh at such timing but felt the need to get out there more so went.

As it turned out it went fairly well, good content even if it didn’t start until 8.30am. That might not sound too bad but I’m not a morning person and an extra 30 minutes in bed can make the difference between civil and sarky. Thankfully I’d stopped in Starbucks and was reasonably civil.

Microsoft once tried to arrange a briefing for me at a conference for 8am on a Sunday morning. I told them that was fine, so long as they didn’t mind my first two questions being “Where’s the bloody tea?” and “Who the hell are you anyway?” The meeting was rescheduled.

Brits abroad

While I’ve had some meetings with Brits over here I’ve kept them pretty minimal since mixing with the locals is the best way to get to know the culture.

However one of the people I know on Yelp got in touch, a Brit who’s been here for a while, and suggested a drink and a natter. Turns out he’s met very few Brits over here and wanted to find out the news from home.

So we met at my local and had a pint of London Pride or four while chewing the fat and playing pool.

Now I thought I had it tough moving over here. He moved over to New York initially and landed in the city on September 9^th 2001. Not exactly the most auspicious start to a career move.

After a spell in Texas he moved to San Francisco and likes it. He clued me into the tax system and how it works (or doesn’t), gave some good info on where to pick up a few delicacies from home and some very useful insights into writing for an American audience.

In return I brought him up to speed on Gordon Brown’s long fall from grace, property prices in London and what exactly is wrong with British sport.

All in all a very good night, and we’ll be doing it again, if his wife lets him.

Merde, il pleut

One of the signs of becoming a San Franciscan manifested itself tonight.

I was wandering back home after a hard day at the office (it’s the summer, so lots of silly pitches and not enough news) and as darkness fell I felt something wet on my face. It was raining.

You’d think after a life in the UK this wouldn’t come as a shock, but after six weeks in the city I’ve become used to not having to worry about rain. Sure when the fog's in you get the occasional dampness on your cheek, but not rain, honest to god droplets of water out of the sky.

I was so excited I went into the house and got the others to take a look – sad but true.

I’m reliably informed that I’ll see rain a plenty in January, and maybe February if I’m lucky, but for the rest of the year San Francisco is a rain free zone. It’s a pity, because we need it, the whole state is in drought at the moment.

Not that you’d notice it. J was appalled when she visited, so see the pavements being cleaned with high pressure hoses. It’s the kind of behaviour that would cause riots if it was practiced on the streets of Melbourne.

True, the city has started to put up advertisements asking people to water their gardens in the morning, not during the hottest part of the day and to turn off the taps when brushing their teeth. So far the response has been less than encouraging.

Slacker

In any city you have to take the rough with the smooth, with this many people crammed together somebody’s going to overhear everyone else.

So when I surfaced from the night’s slumbers at 7.30am to the sound of drumming the first thought was slight irritation, which soon metasized into extreme annoyance.

The first thought was “Someone’s got a new drumkit,” which is irritating at the best of times. Hint: If a mate has really pissed you off buy his kids a drum kit.

But maybe in one of the apartments opposite there’s some budding musician inspired by Ringo Starr (or even the Drummers of Burundi) working on his or her dream of one day making it into a band. Besides I thought, you've only lost an hour's kip and you can make an early start on the day.

But the really annoyance came when they stopped. This slacker only practiced for a touch over 10 minutes. You need at least half an hour in a practice session, preferably an hour, to get better. If I’m going to lose an hour of sleep in the morning I want it to be for a good reason, not just for a dilettante to make some noise once in a while.

While I’m not about to go out and exercise my right to bear arms it made me a little tetchy. That said I’d sound pretty stupid leaning out the window and shouting “Get back on those drums you little slacker.”