Old friends

One of the joys of the internet is that it allows people of any interest and location join and share ideas and gossip online.

I first got into forums in the mid-90s, through an online magazine called Salon. It’s a free-thinking title, with some very good writers and the forums were full of people largely of my ilk. I made some good friends, and even the occasional lover, on there and gained some valuable insights to boot.

It was a cartoon in the New Yorker that coined the classic phrase “On the internet no-one knows you’re a dog”. It’s true that I’d never met most of the people that I chatted to online and it’s possible that among them there might be an axe murderer or two. But when you converse with people online for a number of years they have to be very good at covering those traits up consistently.

Thankfully I’ve found not one of them to be angry loners with collections of skins in the attic; in fact most have turned out to be exactly who they said they were. It’s been a real bonus on my travels to know that if I went to New York, San Francisco, Florida or Seattle, that there would be a local who could show me around and share a good meal with.

Once Salon started charging for forum use the crowd split and shifted to new sites. Most went to Worldcrossing and I tagged along. But about four years ago work commitments and a lingering feeling that I should be putting more effort into offline relationships led me to drop out.

But with the move I decided to get back online. Seeing as I know less than five people in San Francisco I figured it wouldn’t hurt and besides, curiosity got the better of me. So yesterday I went back, and to my delight a lot of the old crowd are still there. There are few things in life better than catching up with old friends and I’m looking forward to doing just that.

Farewell Humph

The world is a poorer place this morning with the news that Humphrey Lyttelton has passed on.

Humph was a master jazz player (his 'Bad Penny Blues' was the first jazz record in the top twenty) but I'll always remember him as the suburb comedian who lead the Radio 4 show 'I'm sorry I haven't a clue'. I fear we'll no-longer hear that show again, it just wouldn't be the same without Humph.

A favourite among fans was his comments about the lovely, and fictitious, scorer Samantha, eg:

"Samantha's going out now for an ice cream with her new Italian gentleman friend. She says she's looking forward to licking the nuts off a large Neapolitan."

So long Humph, you will always be missed.

Mike comes back

Mad Mike has responded to my farewell posting with some corrections. I stand by my recollection of his drinking but mea culpa on the number of bypasses he needed.

Holiday

Took two days off following the Prague trip and took myself off to Paris. I’ve had no holiday this year and needed to eat and sleep without worrying about deadlines or organising staff.

So I cashed in some air miles and went to one of my favourite cities in the world. Paris reeks of history, with a subtle undertone of dog shit. The food is marvellous, the architecture stunning and the people delightfully rude.

It’s been twenty years since I and my then fiancé visited for the first time. We ate hot chicken from market stalls, roamed catacombs filled with ancient bones and rode the elevator to the top of the Eiffel Tower and felt it sway in the wind.

I’ve been back many times over the years but usually on business. It was nice to do the things I’d always meant to without knowing I'm bunking off. I saw the Mona Lisa, which was surprisingly small and grubby, and wandered through the Palace of Versailles – a perfect example of what you can achieve by screwing millions of peasants out of their hard earned francs.

All in all it was heavenly. Proper French bread for example just can’t be found outside France, the oysters were superb and I defy anyone not to light a cigarette and look moody when sitting at a pavement café. I’m going to miss it.

The old East

Arrived in Prague last night and got a bit of a shock. For all my praise for Terminal Five we were stuck on the tarmac and I and another British hack arrived late.

Since there was a press dinner in the evening and we’d missed the bus so we got a taxi. When we arrived the driver turned to us and asked for 300. Small intake of breath. Prague’s taxi drivers have a reputation for being scoundrels but 300 euros for a five minute taxi ride was taking things a wee bit too far.

It turns out we were suffering from Euro-centricism. The Czech Republic has yet to join the Euro zone – something neither of us had realised. It’s quite unsettling to be in a country and realise you’re down to your plastic alone and have no way to buy stuff casually or tip.

So we haggled an exchange rate, got ripped off in the process but not as badly as some, and went to dinner. Sure, we got a little bit shafted but it was a small price to pay for an excellent dinner and good company. The European IT journalistic community is a small crowd and it was good to see old friends again.

In particular a colleague from Norway was there and we spent most of dinner catching up. He has a hell of a job on these things, since Norway isn’t on any of the airline’s hub routes so the typical trip involves two or more flight changes. Nevertheless he was in good spirits and kept us entertained with stories of his children and a trip he took through Eastern Europe in the early 80s.

It’s tough to try and explain to people who don’t remember the iron curtain just how different the world was then. They were followed by secret police, carried letters to Polish families who had relatives in Norway, drank vodka with heavily armed border guards and scrounged parts for their car along the way.

The scars of soviet occupation still mar the old Eastern Europe. You can see it in the staggeringly ugly concrete buildings put up in the wake of the Red Army’s push to crush Hitler, in the food that is only starting to recover from Slavic influence and in the paperwork that is still stultifying.

Despite this the region is recovering and none more so that the Czech Republic. But to be honest I’m not sure the changes are for the better. Yes, there is more freedom, but the centre of Prague is full of sex shops and the stag weekends that come to the city are causing more and more irritation.

My hosts complained that English and German tourists seemed to think that all local women were available for purchase and it’s a sad reflection on our societies that it should be so. Plus, and I know it would have been horrible to live under communism, it’s sad that the only economic system to survive is one based on naked greed.

Terminal Five

OK, let’s face it, the launch of Terminal Five has been an unmitigated disaster for British Airways.

Its press officer was calling regularly to get me down for the launch over a month before the event but considering the colossal cock up that followed I’m surprised they tried. Not beta testing the place before the launch has cost BA dear and will continue to do so for some time to come.

But on my first flight from there I have to say it’s quite impressive. It’s got that newly built cleanliness that works well, there’s a decent selection of shops (although overpriced) and some of the departure gates are close enough to allow you to have a glass of wine while waiting for your flight and still keep an eye on the queue.

Of course, I’m flying hand luggage only, which helps. It’ll be a long time before I trust check in luggage to the place, but once they get the wrinkles sorted out it’ll be a worthy addition to Heathrow.

Getting old

After an ‘interesting’ day at work I spent the evening scouting out locations for my 40^th birthday. It’s over a year away but as I’m going to be away it’s time for some forward planning.

My 30^th started badly, mainly because I woke up and became instantly depressed at the thought that I was heading to geezerdom far too fast. Luckily I had a great party at Andrew Edmunds with my chums and then the evening sank into drunken debauchery that was highly gratifying.

And then in the following year I discovered that it wasn’t the end of the world. In your 30s you’re old enough to know what you want and get taken seriously but young enough to have fun. The 40s are slightly more serious but not especially so these days. In my dad’s time life was tougher – he’d had two kids, one divorce and was working his way towards the next one. This is not something to which I aspire.

It has been suggested by some friends that I’ll stay over in San Fran for longer but I want to be back to see in the big four zero with my friends and family. It’s mum’s 70^th in the same month so I think we’ll have a big thing together as well. All in all, especially with the pitiful holiday allowance in the US, I’ll have to be back for good.

Anyway, life goes on, and so far it keeps on getting better. After all, could get hit by a bus tomorrow and there’s lots more life to cram in.

Snow Day

Came down to the kitchen on Sunday morning and saw the snow – the best snow we’ve had in London for ages. I went out and checked the consistency, big wet flakes – perfect for snowballs. Sure enough the local kids were having a field day.

Unfortunately for her I had T staying with me at the time. She’s one of my best friends and over from New York but had left on a Friday where temperatures were hitting 17 degrees. Now she’s in the heaviest snowfall London’s had since 1991 and was feeling the chill. An urgent search then followed for thermals and thick socks.

While T went out to be fabulous, something she does very well, I was over to a friend’s to watch the grand prix. Hamilton lost it early on (has he fallen prey to second season syndrome one wonders) but the main entertainment of the day was provided by the London Olympic torch procession. It was car crash television.

Any possible propaganda value to be had from running the torch was lost by having it encircled by heavyset Chinese security guards, then bobbies in florescent jackets and the black garb encircling a flicking flame.

Duncan Goodhue earned himself a place in the ‘clueless of the world’ book by saying the protestors should have stayed away because the Olympics was all about sport and not politics. If that’s the case Duncan why don’t we eschew all the pomp, let the athletes turn up in what they fancy and just compete? The Olympics is all about nationalism, commerce and making a buck – and probably has been since the 1936 games.

Summer in the city

London hit 17 degrees today, lovely sunshine and a crisp breeze for most of the day. Of course, the forecast is for snow on Sunday but that’s April for you.

The city in the sun is a joy to see - so different from the wet and cold streets we’ve got used to over the last six months. Spring is such a wonderful time – the trees bud, skirt lengths go up and you just feel energised by nature saying “It’s time; let’s get down do the funky dance of lurve.”

No news yet on whether my proposals for running the office in SF have been accepted. Hopefully things should go well, and I’m thinking about abandoning the whole 30 day delay thing. So I lose a little cash on the broadband connection and phone. Right now I just want to move over the salty puddle and get weaving.

Pub crawl

A local pub (or local for short) is an essential part of many Briton’s life.

There’s something very nice about having a pub where everyone knows each other, plays the odd game or two and has a good time. I fear it’s going to be something I’ll miss when I move.

For example, this is being written in my home local pub, the Dog and Bell – a shining jewel in a slightly grubby setting. This is because my local area has a largely undeserved rough reputation (Christopher Marlowe was stabbed to death here and it was the location of George Orwell’s grimiest spike in ‘Down and Out in Paris and London’), but this pub is a marvellous place to relax and sink a few pints of CAMRA-approved ale, has free wi-fi supplied by a local co-operative and also is one of the few London pubs with a bar billiards table.

My work local is The Ship in Soho. By day it’s a quietish bar with an eclectic music mix (one day fifties classics, another eighties new wave, with the chance of industrial punk or modern lounge – the randomness is part of the charm) and as a Fullers pub the beer is good. By night I avoid it – it gets completely rammed and you can’t hear yourself talk; although come closing time it’s an excellent place to find someone who’s up for a night on the town.

Both pubs share certain qualities. The bar staff are great, you don’t have to tell them what you want because they already know and if someone wanted to start a fight they’d have your back in an instant. But whether you just fancy a good pint, a chat with friends, painting the town red or a quiet read they are perfect.

By contrast my Californian colleagues tell me that having a local pub is the equivalent of becoming Norm in Cheers, a sign of a problem drinker. This is a bit rich coming from a state where twenty years ago people were doing cocaine for breakfast but horses for courses. It seems people drink at home by in large, which ruins it to my mind – sociability is the essence of a good drink.

Nevertheless I shall attempt to find a good local. I’m very fond of the San Francisco Brewing Company, which has very home made good ale and a good historical feel. For example, the base of the bar has a (now thankfully unused) urinal which customers could use if they couldn’t make it to the loos. Writers such as Kerouac used to drink there and it’s just down the road from City Lights so you can go to a reading, pick up a good book or six and then have a civilised pint down the road while perusing one’s purchases.

However North Beach is probably a bit pricey and I’m looking more likely to move into the Mission district. It has the advantage of having good Mexican eateries (non-existent in London) on the doorstep, some great bookshops and being in walking distance of work. But will it have a local?