Peace out, James Brown.

The King of Pop bids farewell to the Godfather of Soul.

Inches and centimetres

Having debunked the rumour that I recently died, I have another, of even bigger concern to deny - "bigger" being the operative word, and more concerning than death, you might ask? If you're a guy, you'll understand.

A survey of more than 1,000 men in India has concluded that condoms made according to international sizes are too large for a majority of Indian men.

This, from a BBC News article, Condoms 'too big' for Indian men, has been the bone - sorry, the bane of my existence for the past two weeks. And the subject of many e-mails, mostly from white guys, liberally copying in their address books, and pasting the article below some small joke about size (though you don't see me complaining about length).

The article spread even to my mother, who is so news illiterate she still thinks Princess Diana was murdered.
"There are people talking in the office, San," she said over the phone. "They say your penis is small."
"What?!"
It was a conversation I didn't want to have with my mum. Again.

In my defence, and that of Indian guys everywhere, who, like me, have been forwarded this article, mocked by their friends and mothers and injured themselves on retracting tape measure, I say this:

It is not the size of the boat, people, it's the motion of the ocean. And, let's not forget, that over Indian seas (incidentally the third largest body of water in the world) is birthplace of the Kama Sutra and a billion children.

"From our population, the evidence is Indians are doing pretty well," says Sunil Mehra, the former editor of the Indian version of men's magazine Maxin. "With apologies to the poet Alexander Pope, you could say, for inches and centimetres, let fools contend."

• Condoms 'too big' for Indian men via [BBC News]

Not dead.

If this blog is my life "approximately", then I died about two weeks ago. And only three of you were concerned (only one left a comment - thank you, Nyssa). What's with that?

Well, when I ended the last post with a health scare and the words, 'The End', I had intended on writing sooner to explain. But the truth is, my life - not death - needed some serious examination. And I've spent the last week or so doing just that - getting it back on track; evaluating my work, my relationships, and my health.

Of course, none are really the better for it, but at least I have a clearer perspective on things. Even if my absense, these days, is harder to maintain.

In web 2.0, it's hard to play dead.

You can blog your own death, sure. But keeping a low profile on the Internet is a much harder thing. Visiting MySpace, for example, the online equivalent of popping into a Starbucks (albeit one full of emo kids pouting at camera phones), lets other members know when you last logged in.

And if you're slow on your old keyboard shortcuts, your instant messenger of choice might automatically sign you in as 'online', or as I like to set it, 'out for lunch' (which is the most likely).

These signs, and the recent changes to my web site, I imagine, put the most observant of my readers at ease. For the other three, rest assured, I am not dead.

Pain in my heart

A little pain in my heart
Just won't let me be
Wake up restless nights
Lord and I can't even sleep.

Mmm, mmm yeah
Stop this little pain in my heart

Pain in my heart, Otis Redding
(covering the Rolling Stones)

It's a little less romantic than I remember, sitting in bed, listening to Otis Redding tonight. But that's because I do have a pain in my heart but it is less the pang of love than it is the sharp shooting sensation in the right side of my chest.

It woke me up about 3 am this morning. I couldn't get back to sleep and so rang NHS Direct, our health service's 24 hour hot line, which, I'm told, is not the number to chat to naughty nurses. I described my symptoms with the help of our soul singing friend.

"Mmm, mmm yeah," I said. "Stop this little pain in my heart."

Unfortunately, the nurse could not. Nor could she appreciate the song, or the inappropriate jokes I made about her naughtiness. Perhaps the pain is comeuppance for mine.

I have fallen spectacularly off my detox tonight, and indulged in more than a little gluehwein at a German Christmas market. But hey, it's Christmas. And it's German. And since I don't eat bratwurst I had little choice but the hot, spicy goodness of mulled wine. And now I'm left with the sharp, shooting pain of what might be a heart attack.

And so I leave you readers, perhaps for the last time, in the hope that a problem shared is indeed a problem halved (or, in the case of my readership divided by about 20); and that you might help me stop this little pain in my heart, before it stops me.

THE END.

They don't call it '24 Hour Fitness' for nothing.

There's no better blog fodder than my infrequent trips to the gym. Unless, of course, you include my infrequent relationships with lesbians. Or maybe my penchant for social faux pas. (Wow, I really do a lot of stupid stuff...)

So, I thought I'd share with you something that I did this morning. I went to the gym. It was something I'd not done for some time. In fact, in the month that I'd not been I'd thought to cancel my membership but - and this is the way my mind works - I figured it was a tiny bit less of an effort to actually go to the gym than it was to cancel my membership.

I'd felt terrible about not going for a month, likening the waste to throwing £35 onto the ground. (In the run-up to Christmas even that's going to have to stop.) So, having decided to once again utilise my membership, I was buoyed by a sense of self-righteousness and the relief of not having to admit defeat to Kevin, my idiot instructor.

And so, when I got to the gym early this morning and the door was locked, I convinced myself that I was such an enthusiastic athlete that I was first to arrive. I waited no longer than a few seconds before Kevin came to let me in.

"Oh, how eager am I?!" I said, cocky and from under an oversized wooly hat. (I'd imagined I was Rocky Balboa when I got dressed that morning, but had neither the physique or the appropriate gym gear to pull it off convincingly.)
"Hold on," he said, opening the door. "I just popped out for a minute. Come on in."
As I did, and signed the book, I saw that above my name were others more eager than me. 2 am, 4 am, 5 am, read the 'time-in' column.
"What'd you say, mate?" asked Kevin, from behind the counter.
"Yeah...nothing," I said, pulling off my hat. "Just slept in a bit this morning, that's all."

• The Weights Are The Hardest Part
• Kevin's Head

Has anyone ever told you you look like Ashley Olson?

I tell you what, it's a bloody good job that I'm very secure in my sexuality...

I came across MyHeritage.com via a MySpace profile that had posted a "Celebrity Collage".

As part of its development on face recognition in genealogy (and part gimmick, clearly), MyHeritage.com reads your photo, detects your face and, by way of dubious algorithm, associates it with the celebrities you resemble the most.

I thought I'd have a go.

• MyHeritage

Biscuits keep falling on my head

Lovely though she is, I must apologise on behalf of Myleene Klass, for her soapy breasts and their unlikely appearance on my blog last week. I realise the post was somewhat out of character and I do hope it didn't offend my more conservative readers.

The truth is, I've not been feeling myself recently. Quite literally. I'm undertaking a month long detox, in which I'm abstaining from booze, fags and sex. Some are easier to give up than others. I don't smoke really and it's actually more of an effort to attract girls than to...repel them.

Jesus will tell you however (when he's next in) that temptation is the hardest part. Indeed, my four days in detox has felt like a biblical 40. Short of the devil himself making an appearance I have been plagued with the wicked snares of desire.

The inescapably attractive Myleene Klass is one, appearing bikini-clad and buxom on ITV's I'm a Celebrity Get Me Out of Here. A burgeoning social life is another. This weekend alone will see me at a club, a house party and a wedding reception, with orange juice and clarity at each.

As if that weren't enough, junk food - perhaps the hardest thing for me to give up - has practically been falling from the sky. Sorry, has actually been falling from the sky, I kid you not. Yesterday, and not for the first time, I was pummelled by chocolate biscuits as I walked down Princess Street. What's that about? Go down there yourself and you'll see crumbs where I was.

Luckily, I've not reached the stage where the smashed remains of chocolate biscuits have tempted me from my detox. Should the bikini-clad and buxom fall into my lap I might be swayed.

	Sorry girls... I'm breaking my 'no ITV' rule, skipping Celebrity Scissorhands (deciding instead to make a large donation to Children In Need) and watching I'm a Celebrity... Here's why.
So long 'Celebrity Scissorhands!'
Why I'm watching 'I'm a Celebrity'...	Ladies and gentlemen, Myleene Klass.

• Celebrity Scissorhands (BBC)
• I'm a Celebrity Get Me Out of Here (ITV)

Washed Up

When I moved out of my family home into my own place one of first things I bought was a plastic washing up bowl. It's more symbolic than it sounds.

To me, it, and all the new kitchenware I'd bought, represented a new independence and a break from the Indian culture on which I was raised.

I'd never seen a washing up bowl until I went to my girlfriend's house. English people, I discovered, put their dishes in this bowl, soaked them in hot water and, some time later, rinsed them off. It seemed to be the antithesis of the Sisypheon ordeal that was washing up in my house.

My long suffering Mum stood making hot chapatis while we ate, and somehow managed to finish hers first and be at the kitchen sink quicker than we could say alloo sag. (My pronunciation always slowed me down somewhat.)

There would be no after dinner conversation. The trays had to be washed - jaldi, jaldi - before the colourful culinary delights left stains in their steel compartments. Mum would stand, hunched over the sink, scrubbing the trays as they clanked, one by one, before her.

The plastic bowl, I observed, allowed my girlfriend's family to dispose of waste liquid into the sink, whilst keeping the washing up water relatively clean.

It was perfect, I thought. While the dishes soaked I could...listen to Radio 4, read the newspaper, have a glass of wine - do all the things we never did in our house. I could...be white and middle-class. All thanks to a plastic washing up bowl.

It wasn't long, however, after moving into my own place that I began to find the plastic bowl a bit cumbersome. I couldn't get much in it and I didn't get much out of it. It just became another thing to wash up. And while I let things soak I realised that I didn't care much for Radio 4, I never bought the paper and I didn't know how to drink wine without getting drunk.

I took it out of the sink. And my washing up bowl, for some time, became my fruit bowl.

Some say multiculturalism is a melting pot. I think it's more a plastic washing up bowl. And I've decided - and can only imagine its cultural ramifications - that I'm getting a dishwasher.

Borat. And mixing with the wrong crowd.

I went to see Borat for the second time yesterday. But I don't imagine it'll become the multiple viewing experience Superman Returns was. In fact, the first time I went to see it I didn't see it at all. I made the mistake of going on an Orange Wednesday, when mobile phone customers get two-for-one cinema tickets, saw the enormous queue of Borat fans, turned around and walked home.

I was put off, not exactly by the size of the crowd, but by its components. And that sounds like a terribly snobby thing to say. But, to quote the Onion, stereotypes are a real time saver, and just a glance at the crowd revealed a group of people probably unable to separate the irony from the racism, misogyny and anti-semitism of Borat.

The genius of Sacha Baron Cohen's creation is that it makes its point by seemingly embracing these bigoted ideas, turning the mirror on its subjects and making us question the boundaries of humour. When I finally saw the film yesterday I found that my stereotyping was spot on, that the crowd, which I'd tried to avoid by going to the matinee, asked no questions of its humour, instead erupted into hysterical laughter without the slightest delay.

I was, and not for the first time in Shrewsbury, immersed in a crowd with whom I shared little in common. And it made me feel as uneasy as Borat's tasteless gags. If you don't see these as satire, I thought, you are essentially laughing at racism, misogyny and anti-semitism. Were these people, I thought, looking at the crowd, the ones accusing me of terrorism? Calling me "über-gay"?

Is it good satire? It is occasionally. I liked when he lambasted people who deserved to be lambasted (and not just because I like to use the word 'lambast'). The frat boys in the Winnebago were truly horrible racist, sexist bastards. The scene in which Borat fearlessly strides into a Texan rodeo ring and loudly praises his hosts' "War of Terror" to wild applause is brilliantly surreal. But picking on shopkeepers by smashing their cheap antiques or presenting Atlanta folk with a bag of his after-dinner poo is just bullying one step up from Jeremy Beadle.

Is Borat funny? Yes, it is, and fine TV. And perhaps that's how it could have been better enjoyed, on the small screen and with like minded people, with whom I could have been sure to share the joke. But yesterday, I think, I was sitting in the wrong crowd.

• Stereotypes Are A Real Timesaver, The Onion

Greatest Hits

I spent a big portion of last night, horizontal on my sofa, going through my entire blog, assigning labels to every post in its three year history. It was a Sisyphean task. But an enlightening one, in that it allowed me to see the frequency with which I write about certain subjects.

By this study you could say that this is something of a travel blog. There are 43 posts in this category, but that's not necessarily because I travel a lot. It's just that I post a lot when I travel.

I also write quite frequently about dating. It's quite alarming how many posts are labelled both 'sex' and 'faux pas'. That should give you some indication of my prowess. (Still single, ladies. Form an orderly queue.)

So, the next time you're horizontal on your sofa browse my blog by label and you might find, if I may say so myself, some absolute corkers. Like these:

From Travel:

• Postcard from South Beach, Miami
• Postcard from Ohio. That's right. Ohio.
• Postcard from Hollywood

From Dating:

• Dumped.com
• My Mental Girlfriend
• Pretzel Logic

From Music:

• Michael Jackson: The Monster that Lurks Among Us
• Thrilling Me Softly
• Sylvia Plath

My type.

I don't exactly have "a type". I find the whole notion a bit non-sensical. Beyond the obvious physical attributes (attractive, please) surely we all want to meet someone who is funny, interesting and smart, etc. (I doubt there is much demand for the sombre, dull and dumb.) Besides I've learnt, in this town, not to be so picky.

There is one attribute however that I assume most people demand in their prospective partners. And that is a compatible sexual orientation. It's an important quality sure, but one that, for some reason, I seem to have difficulty finding.

I didn't find it last weekend. And I'm beginning to wonder if my type is, in fact, lesbian. Or whether I am so metrosexual - so far from the alpha male - that I am considered attractive by the lesbian community. Or even, ironically, so often perceived as gay that my own gaydar is somewhat faulty. In any case, and to quote Larry David, I am a "friend o' lesbians".

It started in 1997 with my first girlfriend, who - you could say - played the butch to my femme. She whipped me in sports (though that's no great feat), she wore her hair shorter than mine and spent an inordinate amount of time with her best friend. She is now, incidentally, a pro-golfer. And full-time lesbian.

More recently I dated a lesbian that I found on match.com. Her profile read, "22-year-old woman...seeking women 18-35." Remarkably, she said, I was just her type. Needless to say, it didn't work out. I guess something got between us.

And then, of course, last weekend. And Sarah. And although I'm off the dating scene at the moment I was happy to meet the delightful Scotswoman and publisher of My Little Pony magazine. And, while I doubt her job has anything to do with her sexuality (unless My Little Pony is some sort of horrible euphemism), I was quite surprised when she asked me out and even more surprised when I heard the next day that she was gay.

With the news I began to piece together the evening. And it's a wonder I didn't work it out for myself. She did have rather boyish hair, she dressed not unlike KD Lang and, of course, she was into me. There was a point in the evening when we were dancing and she grabbed me by the hand and sort of twirled me around. "I'm sorry," she said with a laugh. "I'm used to being the lead." I didn't think much of it at the time. But now it makes complete sense.

• Dumped.com

David Blaine: Street Magic (sort of)

WARNING: Okay kids, this one's got some bad language.
But it's f****** funny.

• Classic (actual) David Blaine trick

What's wrong with Ricky Gervais's Extras?

I suspected something was wrong with Ricky Gervais when he, and writing partner Stephen Merchant, ended The Office with a two-part Christmas special, in which its star-crossed lovers became uncrossed, so to speak, and all lived happily ever after.

It was lovely, don't get me wrong. But at that moment, when Dawn and Tim kissed, a whole country was watching. And it applauded. Long gone were the days when you and your few like-minded friends would cringe at David Brent, the world's most annoying boss. Now annoying bosses all over the country were watching. And they'd bought the DVD.

Then came along Extras and an admirable effort to shed the catch-phrase loving contingent of Gervais's mainstream audience. Viewing figures dropped and, for the first season at least, Gervais and Merchant remembered how to make a cult TV show.

They just forgot to make it funny.

Okay, that's not fair. It has its moments. But, as the second series finished last week, I wondered, what's wrong with Extras?

I came up with this:

• Andy Millman is the least funny character
  Ricky Gervais is Andy Millman, struggling bit-part actor who gave up his day job in the hope of achieving fame and fortune. Actually, Ricky Gervais is Ricky Gervais, which is not to say unfunny, but it's unimaginative. There's very little creation in the character. Ashley Jenson (Maggie); Stephen Merchant, who plays Darren, Andy's incompetent agent; and Barry "off Eastenders" have less screen time but much more realised characters, far more funny in their absurdity. "Have a bit a muffin." Brilliant. That's some funny stuff.
• He's inconsistent
  David Brent was, like Maggie, Darren and Barry, a more consistent character. In Extras, Ricky Gervais alternates between Andy Millman, the podcasting Ricky Gervais and David Brent. He is, in one scene, cool, condescending and cringingly crude - but rarely consistent.
• It's difficult to sympathise with him
  It's like how do you relate to 50 Cent, now that he's off the street and making millions? Okay, bad example. I doubt many of you were ever on the street, or being shot at for that matter. I don't even like rap...what's my point? My point is, by the second series of Extras, Andy Millman's biggest gripe is that he's late for a meeting with Al Pacino. It's hardly Dog Day Afternoon.

There is no doubting Ricky Gervais's enormous talent. The man has actually made me wee laughing. That's funny. But, with Extras, there is something wrong. And I dread to think that it's Ricky Gervais.

I hope with his next project he can either deliver a character as creative and consistent as David Brent or remain behind the cameras as a stellar screenwriter and director. Maybe we'll see more of writing partner Stephen Merchant. Give him a spin-off show with Barry off Eastenders and I might just wee myself. That's some funny stuff. Right there.

S&M

When my local Marks & Spencer revealed its new store layout last week I was a bit disappointed to find that access to the food hall no longer required a trip through the lingerie section.

It had always been something of a guilty pleasure, having to wade through thongs and things to get to the groceries.

Now however when I want, say, some milk or...baps I can take the escalator directly to the food hall.

But I did notice today that, while I'm quite missing the scantily clad mannequins of the lingerie section, M&S seems to have transformed from department store for the elderly into, what looks like, sex shop for the single.

There is definitely an air of eroticism beyond the wireframed undercup of the lingerie department. Mannequins in ladies' clothes hold hands and look adoringly into each others' plastic eyes; they wear Basques and hang from poles, like exotic dancers; and, as I was leaving the store, I noticed a mannequin in that most suggestive of positions: dressed in office attire, bending over a table!

As I went to push the door I saw two letters, backwards through the glass: S&M. Is this the secret to M&S's recent success? I guess the clothes weren't selling so well so they tried the one thing that does in abundance: sex.

Tony Blair rocks out.

• George Bush and Tony Blair sing 'Endless Love'

FHA

Oh, sweet relief. Some good news today: apparently only three of the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse (FHA) are bad. One of them is God! I did not know that. I do now!

I had a chat with a couple of Christian chaps on Pride Hill today. One of them had some sort of American accent and looked like a member of Hanson (he also had like ketchup on his shirt or something); the other was from India but looked black. The whole thing was weird. But they were nice kids.

And so I figured while God himself might not removeth thy stain from thy shirt I might as well donate some money in the hope that the Church might offer some sort of laundry service. Plus, the posters they were selling actually looked pretty cool. The one I bought depicted three horsemen in drab, dull looking clothes, brandishing bloody swords and what looked like nunchucks, and another on a white horse, in clean, newly pressed cricket whites. He also had white hair, a white beard and a mean looking bow and arrow. He was God, apparently.

"Is that God?" I asked.
"Well yeah," replied the Christian. "That's Jesus."
"Wow," I said. "That's really a relief."

And so I gave him a pound and went about my way. I might not hang the poster on my wall but knowing that only three of the Four Horsemen are a problem seems one less thing to worry about.

The red, white and blues

As a medieval town Shrewsbury's epicentre is a castle that sits atop a hill - Pride Hill, to be exact, also the namesake of one of Shrewsbury three shopping centres.

The Darwin Shopping Centre is nearest the castle and generally considered the best of the three. Pride Hill is next - a little worse for wear, and then the Riverside Mall. If the Darwin is "king of the castle", then Riverside is something of a "dirty rascal", home to stores such as BeWise, TJ Hughes and Wilkinson, and frankly some of the strangest most miserable of Shrewsbury's inhabitants.

As the town's bottom-most shopping centre, the Riverside Mall sits quite literally in the shadow of its competitors, its customers generally those unable to climb stairs or inclines. Hence, there are a lot of old people and prams in the Riverside Mall. There is also a terrible sense of doom. Yesterday there was even jazz, but it did little to lift the mood of mall staff.

"Ah, bet that's lovely, getting to hear that jazz all day," I said to the assistant, as live music from a 'grand opening' party drifted into the store.
"Well," she sighed as she closed her eyes and clutched her head. "Don't get me started on that."
"Oh...okay," I said.
Hang on, I thought. What does she mean? "What do you mean?" I asked.
"Well, it's not my cup of tea," she said, still clutching. "That, out there." With that she used her other hand to point to the black lady singing old standards.
"What?" I asked, intrigued.
"Music."
"You don't like music?"
"Well," she brought her hand down to her side. The clutching had left little white marks on her forehead. "In my own time I do - "
"Right."
" - but I'm working."
"Yeah...did you say you had this in another colour?"
"Only what's on the shelf love," she said abruptly. "If it's not on the shelf we don't have it in stock. OK?"

And so I smiled, bought it in red and stepped out into the mall to see that the jazz band were packing away. "Tough crowd, huh?" I said to the drummer. "Perhaps you ought to play the blues next time."
He looked at me blankly.
"You know, give the people what they want?"

The future's bright. The future's useless.

After two days of presentations and for the most part being asked "is television dead?", Emma and I decided to leave the 'Buzz Hall' of Cross Media Week's main conference building for the 'Tree House', and a line-up of speakers and presentations very much more alive.

'New Interfaces - How to interact with a connected world' presented the studies and developments of four scientists working in the field of advanced media interfaces.

The most impressive was John Underkoffler, inventor of g-speak gestural interface technology and advisor to Steven Spielberg. G-speak replaces a conventional computer mouse with a glove that allows the user to point, push, pull and grab objects within a 3D graphical user interface.

If John de Mol was right yesterday and "the meaning is in the use," what followed was impressive but mostly meaningless presentations. Dr. Emile Aarts from Philips Research Laboratories premiered LED technology that lit a room according to scenes in a film, placing the viewer in an immersive environment; a collaborative canvas on which two children could virtually paint together and thus, to quote Dr. Aarts, "be kept off the streets, and from smacking one another"; and, the most useless of all, LED fabric apparently best demonstrated by a soft cushion that bore a pink glowing heart.

Though I won't be running out to buy one of those, if Jo Reid from HP Labs gets her way school children will be running from creatures great and small as she subjects them to what she calls, "Virtual Experience Environments" - or what anyone else might call, "placing small children in horrifying situations." The technology allows schools to advance their pupils by allowing them to walk around existing environments, such as playgrounds and parks, and make them virtual by attaching audio and video feeds of scenes from the Discovery Channel: riots in Northern Ireland, hunting in the Savannah, the Second World War.

The future's bright, I thought to myself. It's also a little bit useless.

This is a low

There's an old Indian saying - "do not judge a man until you've walked two moons in his moccasins." That's a lot of moonwalking and, when you're in the Netherlands, an uncomfortable trot in wooden clogs.

Nevertheless, I squeezed into a pair (metaphorically, of course) and trotted to an infamous 'coffee shop' in the Red Light District. (Where else would I suggest when accompanying my boss on a business trip?)

It was horribly garish. And utterly uninspired. A Rastafarian at the counter, toad stools for chairs and Japanese tourists sucking on spliffs, making peace signs for pictures.

The 'buffalo soldier' at the bar turned down the music, the crowd sang loudly and while everyone else got high I thought to myself, this is a low.

The Week that Lies Ahead

On the journey from Shrewsbury to Amsterdam my boss, Emma, asked what I had hoped to see in the week that lay ahead. I thought for a moment and answered, "clogs...drugs...and whores."
"Right," she responded. "I sort of meant at the conference...?"
"Yeah, of course," I said, sheepishly. "Um..."

We're here for Picnic '06, Amsterdam's annual event for people interested and involved in cross media content and technology. It's part of Cross Media Week and, by the looks of its programme (which includes keynote presentations from MTV, Pixar, and craigslist.org) should be fantastic.

In the spirit of 'cross media', 'web 2.0' and other sort of faddish buzzwords, I'll be keeping you updated via my blog and my Flickr, bringing you highlights of the conference and whatever else I might see in the week that lies ahead.

Lip Service

If you know me - even a little bit - you'll know of my extravagant, financially crippling, twice daily trips to Marks & Spencer. It's the reason my fridge is full of fancies, my cupboards stupendously stocked and my bank balance below the black. I take pride in having turned around an ailing company, but yesterday - after yet another social faux pas (and expensive lunch) - had very little to be proud of.

You see, I am so often in M&S that I consider it a sort of home from home. So when I see a familiar face I greet them as host - if a very rude, somewhat offensive host.

I was on my way out of the shop yesterday when I saw one such familiar face - or rather, back of head - perusing the cake section of the food hall. In my home of course, inappropriate jokes are the norm and so I walked up from behind and close to her ear said, "a moment on the lips," at which point she turned around and I realised that she was not Jane Robbins, mother of Bill and Kate Mohin but absolute stranger and, frankly, offended lady.

"Excuse me?" she said.

I had started, I thought. Should I finish? 'A lifetime on the hips' then slap her on the arse and stroll off? I couldn't do that. I couldn't do anything. I just froze. With all the confidence with which I had approached her it didn't even seem that I had mistook her for someone else. It looked like I was some kind of fat police, patrolling the cake section warning people off their desserts. I might as well have said, "you've had enough, fatty. Do you really think you ought to be buying cake?"

I thought all this as I stood there, going red before this not unattractive yet very offended lady. And so, like the policeman of my imagination, sort of smiled and bobbed as I walked away. As I did I saw her put the cake back on the shelf. It was a little thing. But yes, I suppose it did make me feel a little bit proud.

Surely, quote of the day.

"They wanted to set an example out of me... Who knew the black buck? I mean today because of me, people know there's an endangered species of deer called black buck, well it's actually an antelope."

Salman Khan
BBC News

Kevin's head

"It's a bit worrying that you're this tired after warming up," said Kevin, my gym instructor and, officially, the most annoying person I have ever met.
I wheezed something about being okay.
"Let's move on to the cross trainer," he said, as he lifted me, all limp, from the exercise bike to the next machine.

I surveyed the device and thought of ways to appear like I was working out without actually exerting myself any further. I decided this was best achieved by simply pulling on the bars with my arms, back and forth, propelling myself into some sort of exercise. As I did, Kevin watched my heart rate on the monitor and calculated, in his tiny head, at which point I should stop.
"You're 23..." he muttered, "220 minus..." Then, looking again at the monitor, "Yep. Stop there." With that he slammed the stop button and I became all limp again.

The next thing I know, I'm half way home, limp on a bench, about to throw up. But all I see is a bin with a roof on and an opening around its sides large enough to deposit a banana skin or an apple core. With little choice and just enough turgidity in my neck to tilt it I threw up the best I could into its little opening. The turgidity in my neck gave way and I slumped back into the bench, all limp. I imagined that the bin, oozing with my vomit, was Kevin's head, and suddenly felt much, much better.

The Weights Are The Hardest Part

The last time I ventured into a gym was during my university days. Well, it was really just the one day. And a gym induction. The tour alone was enough to give me a stitch and, needless to say, I am in no better shape today than I was two years ago.

Since then, I have graduated from the exercise regimes of walking across campus, to walking to the train station, to finally walking downstairs to my kitchen, as my daily commute has shortened in stages. (Next year I imagine I'll be working in my sleep.)

Working from home provides me with almost no exercise at all and at 23, a quite worrying shortness of breath. So it seemed as good a time as any, perhaps even a crucial time, to join the gym.

And when I did, I met Kevin, my gym instructor, and possibly the most annoying guy I have ever met.

"So, you want to join the gym."
"Yes. I want to join the gym."
Without looking he reached for a clipboard under his desk, as per the drill, and grabbed a pen from behind his ear - clicking it more times than was necessary. "Right," he said. "Let me walk you through the form."
Although I wondered if there could be anything more difficult than my name, address and billing details, I nodded all the same.
"Okay. The first bit. It's first name first...and then...is it second name?" He looked over at a framed picture of the gym founder as if for confirmation. "Yeah, second name."
"First name, second name," I confirmed. "Yep, got it."
"Then address." He looked to that section of the form and then to me. "Do you know your address?"
"Yep. Pretty sure I do."

It continued like this until the second page and the section, 'Your Exercise Goals.'
"Right. What sort of stuff do you want to do? Like, general fitness..." Then, looking in my direction, "bulk up?"
"Yeah, just general fitness really."
"And bulk up probabl-"
"No. That's fine. Just...general fitness."
"General fitness..." he repeated, jotting it down on the form, "...bulk up..."
"Not bulk up."
"Okay," he said, clicking his pen shut. "So, a bit of cardiovascular this week. And next week...weights."

Supercuts

I'm about the same height, have the mild manners of a reporter and have even been known to slip into a pair of tights (though, admittedly, not my own). There are, people say, similarities between this man and the Man of Steel. An ex-girlfriend went as far as claiming that my mannerisms were adopted directly from the 1978 Christopher Reeve incarnation - bumbling and bashful, nervously pushing my glasses up the bridge of my nose. (When ironically, the habit is, in actual fact, the result of an accident that took place on a ride named, funnily enough, after the Superman of my doppelganger. I banged my head against the side of the carriage, lost the nosepiece of my spectacles and have since battled gravity as it insists on sending my frames sliding down my face.)

When I saw Brandon Routh's - even better - impression of Christopher Reeve in Superman Returns, I decided to trade my choppy chops for a more sensible side parting, thus completing the look. Armed with a copy of Empire magazine and its feature on Superman Returns I headed to the hair dressers (of several blog entries) and explained what I wanted.
"Can you do this?" I asked, pointing to a photograph of Routh, a floppy side parting, adorning his brow.
"Sure," said the hairdresser, before she started hacking away.

Now, I'm no stylist (though you might think so if you saw my array of styling products) but I know that, to achieve said look, all I needed was a quick trim to the back and sides. Imagine my concern then when, twenty-five minutes later she's still hacking furiously away. And though I couldn't see much without my glasses I could see that I was losing a lot of hair and, just within my field of vision, my copy of Empire Magazine and the photo of Brandon Routh, beside which stood a bald-headed Kevin Spacey, posing as Superman's arch enemy, Lex Luthor.

"Hang on," I said, putting on my glasses, and turning to my hairdresser. "What are you doing?"

Giving 'Tom Jones' the boot

It's not often that you find a big name, like Tom Jones, thrust back into your life - not least, into your car. But it was not long after writing about his unusual appearance in Shrewsbury that I found myself, quite literally, stuffing Tom Jones into the boot of my Nissan Micra. Let me explain.

I was sent by my employer to the offices of the Town Council to collect some banners that we had produced for a marketing campaign, and was met with the confused looks that you might expect from an overstaffed, under performing local governing body.

"I'm sorry, we have no record of a collection for today," said the receptionist.
"But I called ahead," I said. "I recognise your voice."
"Right," she said. "But there's nothing on the system."
"Yes, because I'm here. I'm standing here," I said. "You told me to come down."
"Right," she said again, looking no less confused. "Bear with me a second."
After some delay she returned from what appeared to be nothing more than 'thinking time' and suggested that the banners I was looking for might be those rolled and stacked against the wall.

I looked at them and after a similar, perhaps spiteful delay, agreed to take them. It was only when I got to the car and began stuffing them into my boot that I realised, from reading what was visible on the rolled up banners, that the letter 'J' didn’t appear anywhere on our marketing campaign. Concerned that these were indeed the wrong banners, I unrolled one onto the pavement and sure enough, it read: "'Tom Jones' here!" You could see how the Council had attempted to avoid confusion by sticking black tape inverted commas around the words 'Tom Jones.'

Even so, I considered taking them home and fixing them to the outside of my apartment building in the hope that, one day, perhaps on his way home to Wales, the singer might stop, confused by the sign, and feel obliged to perform. Though, in Shrewsbury, an adaptation of an 18th century novel is more likely to knock on your door.

It was a bit unusual

Clever marketing ploy? Or dumb oversight? The Shrewsbury Theatre Guild attracted some less gruesome attention to the crime capital of the county this week when its adaptation of an 18th Century novel was mistaken for Welsh balladeer and heartthrob, Tom Jones.

"Tom Jones here!" the banner, somewhat misleadingly screamed, as it hung by the Castle, prompting middle aged women across the county to rush out, buy tickets and lob some knickers in excitement.

"Can you believe Tom Jones is playing here?" Even Shrewsbury's young began to ask, having only been witness to one other pop music event in their lifetimes - the not unusual arrest of Pete Doherty for possession of Class A drugs.

There were, however, some non-believers. "So some big name is booked to play Shrewsbury. Big deal," said one man. "He'll only cancel. What's new...?"

The Pussycat Dolls in the Quarry?

"Whoah-oh-whoah-oh-whoaah-ooh," said the Theatre Guild, when asked to comment.

It has subsequently added inverted commas to the title of its play, adding that the overwhelming interest in tickets was "a bit unusual."

A Not-So Superplan

If you know me/have read my blog/been in ear-shot of any number of recent conversations you'll know that I'm very excited about the UK release of Superman Returns this Friday.

So excited, in fact, that I rushed out - faster than a speeding bullet - and bought more tickets than people I know. Anxious, perhaps optimistically, that the Man of Steel's return to the Silver Screen would sell out, I spent more money than logic today when booking seats over the Internet - reserving two for the 12:30pm showing in Shrewsbury, another two for 1pm that same day in Telford, and two more for an 8pm showing later that evening.

That's six tickets, for three showings - two of which commence within a half hour of each other, are in two towns 10 miles apart and one frankly expensive and badly planned day.

Worse still, Pete's working, Emma's in London, Beth's in York (and is so sick of Superman and its oft-quoted trailer - "the world doesn't need a saviour...and neither do I" - she wouldn't come anyway); and the only girl who might put up with my hand holding, tear welling, nausea inducing excitement is gone, in a similar and badly planned break-up. If I'd have just hung on...

I don't know what's more depressing: that I don't know five other people to take to the cinema, that I can't work an online booking form, or that I'll be watching perhaps the most eagerly anticipated movie event of my adult life alone, in an ill fitting Superman costume, with an empty seat beside me to put my red polyester cape.

Super.

Town of Flowers

Shrewsbury - birthplace of Charles Darwin, home of 80s pop group T'Pau, town of flowers - became the scene of a murder probe Sunday morning when the bodies of two women were found in what police believe to be a massage parlour.

Since their discovery, the murder, as you might imagine, has been talk of the town. In talking about it, townsfolk - on three separate occasions - have asked of my whereabout Saturday night. This was mildly funny the first time. It then dawned on me that the question assumes two things: that I might a) frequent a "massage parlour", and b), perhaps more alarmingly, actually murder someone.

Also worrying is the fact that I don't have a great alibi. I, like most of the nation, watched Rooney stamp on Carvalho's balls Saturday but then left a house party early to travel from Wolverhampton back to Shrewsbury, with enough time to run a bath, have a sandwich and watch Big Brother. Probably enough time to knock out a couple of hookers.

It doesn't help that I often include the building suspected to be a massage parlour in my town tour to visitors, alluding to them the fact that I know of its place and purpose (though no more than it's blacked out windows and closed sign).

It probably works against me that I am like one of two people of colour living in the town centre. If a brown face was caught on CCTV I've a 50/50 chance of being interviewed. And I don't do well under that kind of pressure. I can't even stop from sweating when airport security ask if I packed my own bags.

However conspicuous at least I wasn't sporting ridiculous head gear Saturday night (for once). Apparently police are looking to interview a man who stayed late at a nearby pub, wearing a purple bandana and having taken part in a "pirate re-enactment."

A pirate re-enactment? A massage parlour? A murder? These things happen in Shrewsbury? This place is suddenly a lot more than a town of flowers.

My Hot Thighs

Though many online forms and questionnaires have asked, I have - I promise you - never listed my thighs as my "best feature" (though this might be to blame for my lack of match.com action); so, rest assured, this entry is not about the hairy strip of flesh between my knees and nether-regions, sexy though that might be (to the depraved). It is rather about my burning lap, not the seat of exotic dancers, but home to my overheating Mac - cool by form, frickin' hot by function.

The MacBook Pro, released earlier this year, is one hot piece of assembled hardware, apparently fixed with thermal grease, which is causing some of the stylish laptops to reach temperatures of 129°F.

There's no doubt the MacBook Pro is packin' heat. But at those kind of temperatures new Mac users, like me, are no longer the cool kids of the computer world. And, though branded - quite literally - with the Apple logo, my thighs are no more attractive, though perhaps less hairy.

• Warning from Apple: Don't put our laptops on your lap [via Engadget]

Superman Returns

Superman's return to our big screens this summer will have fanboys, like me, wetting their little red underpants in excitement and might, potentially, give some approval for my often unpopular taste.

People jeer at my Jacko obsession (not those cool kids outside the gates Neverland, oh no); they scoff at my Dawson's Creek DVD collection; throw their drinks at my shiny white shoes and yell, "Oi, you! Gay boy!" Who's gay now? (Well, Superman, according to gay magazine The Advocate.)

But for once, it seems, something I like (in tights, nonetheless) has the approval of critics and the drink lobbing public alike, as the first reviews for Superman Returns give the new movie a resounding thumbs up.

Variety magazine's critic said it was "grandly conceived, sensitively drawn [and] never self-consciously hip".

"It is sincere, with an artistic elegance and a genuine emotional investment in the material," he wrote.

The Hollywood Reporter, meanwhile, saluted "a heartfelt Superman movie that plays to a broad audience".

Routh, it continued, plays the comic book character "with honesty [and] winning fortitude".

And Newsweek's David Ansen wrote: "From the start of this gorgeously crafted epic, you can feel that Singer has real love and respect for the most foursquare comics superhero of them all.

"Newcomer Routh may or may not be a real actor, but he effortlessly lays claim to the iconic role."

His comments were echoed by Harry Knowles on the Ain't It Cool News website, who described Superman Returns as "the film I was hoping and dreaming for".

"Just as Batman Begins relaunched an ailing Batman, it sends Superman into the stratosphere," he wrote.

• BBC News
• Ain't It Cool News
• Superman Returns

Google This

As part of the free service that www.statcounter.com provides I can see what keywords people are entering in Google to find my website. Here are some of my favourites:

• dork on bike
• booty consultant
• macho men
• solar generator briefcase retailers
• arnie-who is your daddy?
• swingers in telford
• shit stained
• black surfers
• crazy ass lights
• www.tiffanyrose.com

Dumped.com

Since failing to meet the requirements that secure my money back guarantee, not to mention being stood up and having thrown up, my match.com subscription had finally rendered itself useless, usurped finally by MySpace and that other playground of romance, the real world, in which I had recently found some success.

Suzie, affectionately referred to in a previous post as “the one that came along,” had been coming along rather well, for want of a better word. That is, we’d been seeing each other for a few weeks. Anything beyond a few dates is somewhat miraculous for me, having dated women with children, ex-husbands and mental illnesses. (A background check revealed no history of these things.)

Excited by this and, hedging my bets somewhat, I made my last move on Match.com to, remarkably, decline a date with a not unattractive young lady. “I’m sorry,” I wrote. “I met someone.” Imagine my surprise then when that someone uses the same online service to send me a virtual wink (see Can’t buy me love) and essentially invites me to view her own match.com profile.

“22-year-old woman,” it began, “seeking women 18-35.”

Now, we’ve not yet had that talk about our “relationship”, whether indeed there is one, and whether, of course, we are seeing other people. By sending me a virtual wink via match.com, Suzie answered some of those questions, sure, but raised others too. Let’s start with what we do know. We are, I guess, seeing other people. In fact, we’re actively seeking other people. We are actively seeking homosexual relationships.

By alerting me to her match.com profile is Suzie suggesting that I am a) “women aged 18-35”, or b) dumped, ceremoniously, with a wink and a new agenda or, rather, a new gender?

Ladies Man

I’m sorry that I haven’t written for so long. I guess I haven’t done anything stupid in a while. Not since seeing She’s the Man, sleeping with my ex-girlfriend or making excessive international calls on my mobile, all of which are detailed below and, incidentally, involve members of the opposite sex.

It was only a matter of time that one would come along; I would do something stupid and, if nothing else, get to share it on my blog. Luckily for me however, Suzie, the one that did come along, finds the stupid things that I do quite charming. (I’ll give her ‘til the end of this blog entry.)

“The female of the species,” so wrote Rudyard Kipling (and sang 90s band, Space), “is more deadly than the male.” And though they’ve not yet proven fatal (though I hope that’s how I’ll go), just being around them is something of a scarring experience for me. Quite literally.

I wrote in Your Hapless Hero of the nosebleed that ruined a barbeque and in Word of Mouth about the mouth sores that precede even the slightest chance of sex. I was suffering from neither come my date with Suzie when I stepped into the shower, and the elaborate routine that is my getting ready, to find I had no hot water. This is, to me, like having no water at all. How was I to double-shampoo, apply my leave-in conditioner, have a hot towel shave?

And while these are issues that concern the metrosexual male, plumbing is not. So I set about getting some help. And when it finally arrived, three days later, it was exactly as I imagined. The plumber’s name was Kev, and he said things like, “ooh, this looks like a bigger job than I thought”, “I’m going to have to order another part”, and something about football that I didn’t understand.

Either way, he left not having fixed my plumbing and with the realisation that, worse than a nosebleed, worse even than the mouth sores, I stank. I hadn’t showered in days. And I had a second date with Suzie. What was I going to do?

I decided I would shower at my gym. But then I realised I don’t have a gym. I know a gym, sure, but it’s not mine, I’m not a member, and I’ve never got beyond the gym tour or over the stitch that it gave me. But this was a matter of personal hygiene, I told myself; personal appearance. And so I called ahead and asked if I could.

Worse than the idea of exercising was the thought of taking a communal shower. But once I got there and changed out of my clothes, I stumbled in blindly, without my glasses, and found there were curtains that divided the shower room into cubicles. Better still, there was no-one there. Pulling the curtain to, I began the first of two shampoos. This was great, I thought. As I applied the leave-in conditioner, I read the ad that hung on the wall. “Stay shower fresh all day,” it read. That would be nice, I thought. And how do I do that? “Use Always Ultra Panty Liner.”

Just then, two female voices entered the room, their pedicured feet showing from under the shower curtain. Thinking mine were conspicuously hairy I edged back towards the wall (and the panty liner advert) and wondered what the hell I was going to do. The female of the species might be deadly, but, when it comes to personal hygiene, apparently they’re no match for the metrosexual male. One shampoo and no conditioning later they had left and so too did I, squinting as I did to see the ‘Ladies’ sign on the door.

Soccer and High Heels

Hot on the high-heels of Felicity Huffman’s critically acclaimed Transamerica, She’s the Man is a gender bending comedy of errors, recycled from parts of Shakespeare’s Twelfth Night and Robin Williams’ Mrs Doubtfire. In it Amanda Byrnes plays a girl who pretends to be a boy in order to play soccer.

“Everybody has a secret...” reads the almost necessarily long tagline on the movie’s poster. “Duke wants Olivia who likes Sebastian who is really Viola whose brother is dating Monique so she hates Olivia who’s with Duke to make Sebastian jealous who is really Viola who’s crushing on Duke who thinks she's a guy...”

You might be wondering how I read to the end of the poster and still saw this movie. Surely a film with this many interlocking romantic triangles is one for a hot date? Not in my world. In my world this is the kind of film that I am cajoled into seeing by my slightly weird, thirteen year old, male (I should mention) cousin.

I thought, at the least, there might be some eye candy in the form of the female lead. This is usually where I find my solace in being cajoled to watch a sub-standard romantic comedy. I didn’t find it in this film. Amanda Byrnes, though perfectly lovable, looks about 12 years old. And, when disguised as her older brother, a 13 year old boy. This does not appeal to me. And so, with what remained of my appetite, I took what solace I could find in the mouth candy of my popcorn.

But, with exuberance as boundless as his baldness, the greatest consolation, by far, was an excellent turn by David Cross as the school principal. Essentially reviving his role as Tobias Fünke in Arrested Development, Cross’s headmaster is an even less convincing ‘man’ than Byrnes’ – awkward in his skin, weirdly effeminate and occasionally alluding to a penchant for cross-dressing. “Have you ever tried running in high heels?” he asks. “It’s not that easy...it’s not that easy.”

And have you ever tried sitting through a romantic comedy pitched at an age group, an IQ even, dare I say, a gender not your own? It is, I imagine, like running in high heels. It’s not that easy. It’s not that easy.

Baby Brown

Nannying has had its fair share of bad PR. British au pair, Louise Woodward and her murder trial did little for its image; so too did Jude Law when he, rather bizarrely, cheated on his fiancée, Sienna Miller with his children’s nanny. Then, of course, there was the Robin Williams film, Mrs Doubtfire, in which the profession is depicted as an opportunity for some cross-dressing, gender bending, slapstick humour. (“My first day as a woman and I am already having hot flashes.”)

And though, in her casual clothes, she does look somewhat like a small boy, my ex-girlfriend, Beth, is single-handedly improving the public image of the au pair industry. She is meticulous in her care of the four Wheeler children and careful too, to instil some racial tolerance at an early age. I witnessed this first hand yesterday, when I met with Beth and her youngest – two-year old Bea.

“I like your shirt,” I said. “It’s pink. Do you like pink?”
“Yeah,” she replied, coyly.
“My shirt is blue.” I said, pointing to it. “Do you like blue?"
“Yeah,”
“And what about brown, Bea?” asked Beth. Then, pointing at my face, “Do you like brown?”
She thought about it. It was an excruciating moment, but rewarded with relief.
“Yeah,” said Bea. “Brown!”

Be still my stupid heart.

Do you remember that college film, in which a guy cheats on his girlfriend on camera, accidentally sends it to her and then embarks on a road trip to retrieve the tape before she sees it? You know, he and his friends hit the road...in a trip across the States? And lots of funny things happen on the road and during their trip? What’s it called? ‘Road’ something? Something ‘Trip’? I don’t know.

Anyway, I find myself in a similar circumstance – more tenuous, I suppose, than similar. But having returned from my own road trip I now find myself chasing an item of mail, in an attempt to exonerate myself of a stupid incident. There was, I suppose, driving involved, and sex. No videotape however (most unusual), but a letter – and a stupid one at that.

You see, towards the end of my trip, I found myself in the embrace of an ex-girlfriend – one I didn’t think I’d ever see again. In the moment and, I guess, out of my mind, I found myself in a compromising situation and, convinced that this was the result of her undying and unrelenting love for me, wrote her a letter whilst on the plane home.

With a combination of jetlag, fatigue, and the after-effects of that blasted in-flight romantic comedy, I dropped it in the letterbox and essentially sent her a letter of sympathy. I could not, I wrote, find it in my heart to love her again.

Imagine my surprise then when I returned home to an e-mail from said lost-love. It was nice to see me, it said. And nice too, it went on, to relive the passion. “See you later,” it finished. “Cheers.” What I thought was the star-crossing of two paths, nevertheless a rocky road, was nothing more than a booty call.

I was, of course, happy to oblige. But there was a letter, on its way, with a far less casual tone. It must be stopped, I thought. I might not have saved ass, but I was hoping, at least, to save face.

I implored her not to read it, but couldn’t imagine how she would not. Especially with all the imploring. I wondered how long it would take to arrive; I worried that her roommate/ex-boyfriend/whatever might read it; I wished I hadn’t sent it.

Today, I got a letter. In fact, I got two. The first read:

“Dear San, I didn’t open this letter. Alas, I don’t know how to steam it open, but I also trust that if you really wanted to say something to me, you would just say it, unapologetically. So, here is your letter back, unravaged by my curiousity. I hope you’re well… Always, X”

The second was mine, enclosed.

Blog Author for Sale

In my last post, pointless though it was, I asked whether my trip to California had changed me. The question plagued me for, oh, fifteen minutes. I had just as soon forgotten it when Vodafone, my mobile phone provider, called with an answer.

If I had changed since my trip it was financially. Whilst out there, it seems, I made a number of calls, resulting in a bill of £360. I have changed. I’m broke.

Hotel reservations, e-mail checking, booty calls have cost me more than my car rental. Hell, they’ve cost me more than my flight! And now, I need to find a way to recoup my costs.

First to go is my match.com subscription. I’m not going to find love within six months and I don’t even qualify for the guarantee. I haven’t organised enough dates, or rather, dates haven’t always shown up.

Next, are the extravagant Marks & Spencer ready meals. No more Char-Grilled Chicken Linguini with Salsa Verde for me. I bought a sack of potatoes today.

And I’m drastically cutting my shoe budget. – gasp –

Saving money is one thing. Making money is another. And I’ve been thinking of ways to do so with as little effort as possible. See the ads above? Now click.

I figure, with my site statistics, I should make an easy...15c per week. To supplement that I’ve also gone into publishing. Self-publishing, rather, with Lulu. No, not the famed 60's singer (though my books and my prices will make you want to shout! – that’s going on the cover).

Lulu is a free self-publishing site that prints and ships each order as it’s bought. You keep your rights, design, price and 80% of the profits. And, since I thought that I have a much smaller percentage of free time available to write books, let alone paltry blog entries, I decided to publish some of my earlier works. Namely, a university paper, The Thrills: Michael Jackson, MTV and Multi-platinum Success; my dissertation, The Funk: A Cultural Response to the Disappointments of Post-Civil Rights Era America; and, slightly less academic and, arguably, less entertaining than Michael Jackson, MTV and funk music, a compilation of my best blog entries.

And, as a final measure, and perhaps to compensate for having to cancel my match.com subscription, I researched online escort agencies. (This is part of a money-making scheme, mind you, not just a way to blow my remaining money on some good company.) Ideal Escorts can help you make £500 per night. And, I figure, I’d be killing two birds with one stone, so to speak. Well, hopefully, no girls will have to die. But they would be helping a worthy cause. We both would be.

And you can help too. Click an ad, order a book, order me!

It's a kind of magic

Somebody asked me tonight if I was a long baby when I was born.
I said, “Yes.” I said that I was unravelled like a never-ending handkerchief from a magician’s sleeve.

And just as I vanished to America for a month, I now feel suddenly pulled from a hat – a floppy eared bunny rabbit!

Ta-da.

OK, I may be no more floppy eared than usual (they’ve always been big) or, indeed, as highly sexed as a rabbit, but did my vanishing act to California change me?

I think that whenever you leave and return to a place, you give yourself the opportunity to start afresh or, at least, a new chapter. It’s like an artificial New Years. It starts with so many resolutions. Keeping them, though, would be magic.

Postcard from London

"Welcome to London. It's a blustery day here," said the announcement, as the plane touched down at London Heathrow. "It's raining."

It didn't take me long to figure this out for myself.

As I stepped out a paper bag blew up and smacked me in the crotch. A sort of telling off, I imagined, for my month in California.

Even as I write this I can see litter blowing up and smacking people for their sins. I think of how they ignore bins here, as they do social niceties.

A rather rude customer service advisor has just told me that I can't travel on an earlier train to see my mum on Mother's Day.

It smacked with irony then when James Blunt came on the radio.
"My life is brilliant," he mocked.
Whomever smiled at him on a subway, I thought to myself, can't have been riding the Tube.

Postcard from a Convenience Store

Behind the convenience store counter sat, what I've been told is called, an NRI - a non-resident Indian.

The top half of his face hid under the shadow of his baseball cap, which nodded both to the San Francisco Giants and to the tallish NRI standing at the counter, handing over his driving license.

I was buying booze.

As he stood to serve me I noticed that from under his baggy jeans shone the ruby jewels of his fancy slippers.

These were not the shoes of an American football fan. Nor were they the comfortable footwear of a convenience store clerk.

The stones were sewn into white satin and glistened as he walked, with surprising grace, over to the cash register.

These were, I realised, the slippers of a bhangra dancer.

He noticed me smile and turned up the volume on his radio. It was the familiar locomotive beats of bhangra music.

My feet shuffled, we spoke a little Punjabi and the drinks were on the house.

Postcard from a Rollercoaster

There must be some convoluted metaphor I can apply to riding Santa Cruz’s Giant Dipper five times as I did today. Life is a rollercoaster? Pleasure at the fairground? Rollercoaster…of love? I’m beginning to sound like an AOR radio station playlist. (And I’ve always considered myself soul, man.)

With a light breakfast, a wristband, and balls of steel, Pete and I plonked ourselves down on one of the oldest rollercoasters and marked the beginning of my last week here with an ascent, a decent, a twist and a turn.

I guess I could fashion some literary device from that. What do we have? An ascent…? Well, we’ve certainly had our high points. Seeing the sun set over the Pacific, out of the windscreen, setting the sea and St Patrick’s Day on fire, with the Rolling Stones ‘Under My Thumb’ and on the car stereo is a moment in time I will not soon forget. Nor will I the kind people that I’ve met. And it doesn't get much higher than riding, what the Rough Guide calls, two "utterly demented" rides atop Las Vegas's 1149-foot-tall Stratosphere tower.

A decent…? I think I hit some dark depths after a particularly drunken night, when I realised that my blurry outlook had less to do with how much I’d drunk and more to do with the fact that I’d actually lost my glasses. I then had to spend the next few days (before I bought a replacement pair) driving in my prescription sunglasses and explaining to everybody that I did not think I was cool sitting in my shades at the bar. (They didn’t think I was cool anyway.)

As for twists and turns, there’ve been plenty driving on the 1, or the Pacific Coastal Highway. Just last night we saw a deer in our headlights. Literally. It looked like me. I mean, I’ve felt the same way with some of the run-ins I’ve had.

And we can expect more – twists and turns, that is – as we continue our roadtrip north. If, to quote Ronan Keating, of all people, “life is a rollercoaster”, I’ve just got to ride it. Word.

Postcard from Las Vegas

In the carefully constructed casinos of Las Vegas every effort is made to keep the teeming, gambling masses in a constant state of fantasy.

The halls are a Wonderland-like maze of tables and toys, clocks are conspicuously absent, time and space - even the natural light of day - are a reality at odds with this sensuous sin city.

If you ever find an exit sign and venture out into the unknown - a sun-lit Strip in the day - you'll find the curious meeting of fantasy and reality. Neon signs reach into a clear blue sky and the Las Vegas Boulevard stretches between the Sierra Nevada mountains like a stream through the desert.

Though not exactly the same (there are fewer exotic dancers, but no less gambling), Las Vegas and its two worlds is in some way similar to my life. My writing is the Strip that bridges my public and private spheres.

Unlike Vegas however neither present fantasy. Far from it (there'd certainly be more exotic dancers and less gambling if that were the case). Rather, those that known me, that share in my experiences and read my blog are presented with reality from a different perspective.

I write this because I met a girl - a great girl - far from the Las Vegas Strip, in sunny San Diego. And I'm nervous that when she returns home she'll Google me, find my blog and suddenly be presented with reality from a different perspective. Not to mention an archive of my dating disasters.

But I guess that this is what we gamble when we put our cards on the table. It's like opening the door to a sun-lit Las Vegas, my flaws and follies on display.

Sometimes even there are exotic dancers.

Postcard from Big Stupid Sur

Should we have taken the advice of Irish band, The Thrills, we might not have gone "back to Big Sur", and be faced, as we are today, with a court citation.

And though running from the cops was high on our list of things to do, this morning we were faced with a park ranger. And we hardly ran. Instead, we stated our case plainly: We had (honestly) dropped our $20 into the drop box for registration at the camp site. Somehow, perhaps through some administrative error, it had got lost.

"You see sometimes," the old man said. "People say they've paid their registration," then, looking at us from under his baseball cap, added, "when they haven't."
"With all due respect, sir," I began. "We have."
"Is it possible that you forgot to pay and dropped it in this morning?"
"No," Pete snapped. "We paid it. When we arrived."

And so the conversation continued until the man, with the power to tear up our notice and put this misunderstanding, like much of the Pacific Coastal Highway, behind us, simply smirked and walked away.

For a moment in time our destiny, our freedom, sat in the grubby hands of this rude and arrogant park ranger - a stupid white man with the power to decide our fate.

And as we left the park, I thought of other stupid white men in positions of power and wondered how Americans put up with it everyday.

Postcard from a Big Guy in a Small Town

You can take the big guy out of the small town but not the small town out of the big guy.

This is the lesson I learned from my stay in Davis, the sleepy college town where, you might remember, I stayed for a year and, more recently, vowed to never return.

Posterity, a remaining friend and a convenient stop on our road trip led us there. And a girl - isn't there always a girl? - may just bring us back.

I'm vowing to never take more vows. Unless of course it is one of holy matrimony with Sonia, the young lady my friend Amber introduced us to.

And though we'd wished, with the Beach Boys a-blaring on the car stereo that "they all could be/California girls", Sonia hails from Spain. But she'll always hold a place in my beer swilled heart.

I might have been under the influence, but my eyes had ne'er seen a more beautiful site. And bear in mind, we're road tripping down the Pacific Coastal Highway.

Having sobered up and hit the road (in that order), it occurs to me that I've either fallen pretty hard for Sonia or bumped my head. I say this because we've driven some 250 miles but no further from her delightful memory.

The catch - and isn't there always a catch? She has a boyfriend, albeit a pig, who pays her little attention and time.

With three weeks remaining I could give her both those things. Unfortunately, all I leave her with is a stolen kiss and a goodbye.

Postcard from a Piss-Drenched Couch

It's important to make a good first impression. Even more so when travelling, meeting new people and, potentially, sharing their living space.

Unfortunately, I rarely do.

Like this morning at my friend Katya's house in San Francisco. It turned out that, in the night, her cat had peed on the sofa - an occurrence that Katya was recounting to her new housemate, Christina. This coincided with my first meeting with said housemate.

And though it would have been more sensible, certainly more commonplace, to simply extend my hand and say my name, I instead went with a joke. And a crude one at that. You could say that I took a risk.

"So, Christina," Katya said. "The cat peed on the sofa last night."
"Oh no!" Christina exclaimed. "Bad kitty!"
"Well hey," I said, pointing. "I just pissed in the corner."
"What?" Christina said. Clearly preoccupied with the piss-drenched couch she'd not heard my joke.
"I, er...I pissed in the corner."
The moment had passed. And I was just some weird guy, standing in her lounge, pointing at the spot in which I'd just claimed to have pissed.
"Hi," I said, extending my hand. "I'm San."

Postcard from match.com/sanfrancisco

Though many first dates may start with nerves and excitement, few end with projectile vomit.

This was the curious situation I found myself in last night as I kissed my date farewell, stumbled out of her front door and puked on her porch.

It was marginally better than my first match.com date, buoyed by the fact that she actually showed up. And it didn't hurt that we were drinking in arguably California's greatest city, San Francisco.

The amount we drank however may have led to the evening damp and dastardly demise and this morning's hangover from hell.

Should she not remind me of such horrifically drunken times I might see her again. Unfortunately, her memory is now forever associated with that crazy night. And I'm constantly reminded by the little bit of vomit on the tip of my shoe.

Pretentious Poem from North Beach

Allen Ginsberg, what would you say,
Sitting here, smoking North Beach away?
Inhaling the trees
Blowing out the cathederal
Sleeping bags and the homeless
Did you know him?
He's about your age
He's flanked with tourists now
The City Lights Walking Tour
Did you ever take that, Allen Ginsberg?

.

Postcard from The Office

We made it to San Francisco by plane and train. It seemed only natural then to complete the final part of our journey by automobile.

When my friend, Meghan, picked us up from Union Square we hit speeds of zero to weird in under 15 minutes, stopping at her old workplace for an office party.

Imagine the scene: the UK Office meets its US counterpart by way of Louis Theroux's Weird Weekends and Larry David's Curb Your Enthusiasm.

Awkward humour, tongue in cheek and social faux pas.

Postcard from the Runway

I was under the supposition that by leaving England I was leaving behind its vagaries and virtues. And though I'll miss the Beeb, logical road systems and PG Tips, I'd imagined a fond farewell to the many fouls of English customer service.

We'd not even left the runway however before being reminded that for the next 10 or so hours we were at the service of British Airways.

A Geordie voice crackled over the tanoy.
"This is Dean, your flight service manager," it said. "Can I just say, it's very difficult to do our job when yous lot stand in the isles.
"And another thing," he continued. "There are 208 passengers and 208 meals. It doesn't take a genius to work out that some of you might not get the right kind. Can I just apologise now?"

And with the pre-emptive apologies of the British Airways cabin crew we were ready, more than ever, to take off.

Postcard from the Check-In Desk

The abuse of the English accent happened long before landing on American soil. Having been denied a seat next to Pete on the plane I thought I'd approach customer services with a smouldering look that in my head resembles James Bond, in the external world, a man in need of a bathroom.

Overhearing her name in conversation, I say, with perhaps too much surprise, as if seeing an old friend, "Sarah!"
Within five minutes, a few smouldering looks and the most charming English accent I could manage, I had young Sarah printing me a new boarding pass.

Let's hope my skills of persuasion work just as well at immigration, where I'm paranoid to the point of feeling like I'm only pretending to be a "regular tourist."

Postcard from the Night Before

Though it seems a shame to leave the bitter cold of a lingering winter, the oodles of work piling on my desk, the threat of bird flu even, I've decided to blow my holiday entitlement on a month long trip to California.

Accompanying me this time is my not-so-glamourous assistant, Pete, my trusty Moleskine (notebook to Hemingway and Chatwin) and a number of Biro pens.

Expect witty field reports, acute observations and, ultimately, bitchy comments about my travel buddy, Pete, as we venture on a journey across the state, through the Nevada desert and into the longest period of time I've spent with a single person.

How will we get on for a month? Who will flip first? Where is my red shirt? Just a question for myself there. But stay tuned for answers to the other two. And more besides.

R.I.P. My Love Life

Ah, first dates. The nerves, the sweaty palms, the possibility that they’ll actually show up. Today was mine with an online match, or so it should have been. Instead I was left nervous, sweaty and alone.

And a little bit confused. It was as whirlwind as an online romance could be. On Wednesday she ‘winked’, by Thursday we had exchanged e-mails, on Friday we were making plans to meet. It was like a Craig David song.

In fact, I thought she was very keen, having suggested that we meet up today. She even suggested that we do so at a time and a place convenient to me. Instead, I arranged to have coffee in a trendy, Birmingham bar, about an hour from home. It might have not been convenient but it was at least in her home town.

Sitting at the bar I wondered when ‘fashionably late’ became ‘you’ve been stood up, mate.’ But considering she hadn’t far to travel, and that she was so keen to meet in the first place, I figured circumstance had prevented her from coming. Perhaps a family crisis, an accident, last minute nerves even. Maybe she died.

It took a real friend however to suggest that perhaps she had seen me and decided to leave. I still think that she’s dead.

Put the dildo down

Have you ever been somewhere embarrassing, like a sex shop, and worried that you might see somebody you know? Well, the chances are that if you do, they'd be just as embarrassed. There's some comfort then in knowing that should they ask, "what are you doing here?" you could just as easily reply, "what are you doing here?"

The Internet being one big sex shop, in which the goods are on display but the customers are not, gives surfers a feeling of anonymity and the confidence, however misguided, that they can peruse, pick up and play in privacy.

But put that dildo down.

Our privacy is this century's Civil Rights but its protection is not yet assured. And, should the ne'er-do-wells in the Bush administration get their way, even our search results will be monitored (I’ll save you the worry, it's annsummers.com).

Whatever it's long term plans (and don't believe everything you read at google-watch.org), Google last week emerged as a sort of Rosa Parks, refusing to give up its seat, or rather its records, to the Bush administration.

So, and I digress, while my IP address, cookies and crumbs can give me away online, last night my web whereabouts were revealed by nothing more scientific than actually bumping into somebody I know somewhere I shouldn’t have been.

Well, I was on match.com, not that there's anything wrong with that, but decided to check out my competition. To do so however I had to search for men, roughly my age in and around my area.

As the results loaded I recognised an old school friend and, in my haste, clicked on his profile. Though mine, and the exercise as a whole, has been mostly tongue in cheek (so far only my tongue in my own cheek), his was very sincere.

And I say in haste, because clicking his profile was with more so than sense. The match.com service being what it is (that is quite impressive) members can see who has viewed their profile.

Not only will I be revealed for using the service – something I'm obviously not too shy about – but seen as searching for men, roughly my age in and around my area.

It's like I’m in the sex shop and I've been caught picking up a dildo.

The Hoffice

A highlight of Yahoo’s Finds of the Year awards, if not the highlight, the Hoffice Calendar is making the rounds with bored office workers, ironic students and genuine German fans. If the Hoff isn’t already hanging off your wall download it now.

Waiting for Beth

Waiting for Beth has become almost as popular and certainly as absurd a tragicomedy as Samuel Beckett’s original, playing off-off Broadway in restaurants and bars in my hometown. In the past week I’ve sat waiting for my ex-girlfriend on a number of occasions – not including the two years in which she lived in California – and have realised that tardiness is a theme that concerns both plays.

In mine however the waiting is not in vain, but it is in discomfort. Waitresses watch from the wings, deployed one by one, with tilted head and sympathy, to ask if I need another drink, if I would like a starter, or if I might require a counsellor. It’s a surprise to them, and an enormous relief, when Beth shows up, by which time I’ve already had crab cakes, a chat with a professional and one too many Brewskies.

If breaking up is hard to do, dating is harder

Fear not, loyal readers, your hero to zero has not found love in his absence. I am sorry for not having written sooner but, rest assured, my adventures on Match.com have resulted in nothing more romantic than a couple of e-mails and a costly credit card bill.

I am glad however that things are working out for my readers. Sian, 40 from Shrewsbury, joined Match.com as local_minger on the strength of my recent posts. “I've got fleas, large facial warts and all manner of infectious diseases... but a great personality!” says Sian on her online profile, which, despite it’s raw honesty, has led to over 200 viewings, scores of e-mails and a couple of dates.

Divide those figures by four and we’re closer to the sort of statistics my online profile is enjoying. Despite my “virtual winking”, even e-mailing a few girls, I have as of yet been unable to score a single date. But before my winking develops into a nervous tick, I’m not going to worry. I like to think that I have a very slow release charm.

It has actually been oozing rather gently over a long conversation with ChicClimber, a 26 year-old junior doctor, with whom I share a love of Belle and Sebestian and Ben Folds. After a couple of inappropriate jokes regarding incest and espionage I guess the slow release charm slowly retracted and ChicClimber went rather quiet. Either that or she found my blog.

If that is indeed the case, Amie, I do apologise and hope you might get back in touch. It’s customary that a girl dates me at least once before breaking up with me. This way is so premature. I know it’s hard to break up in person but it’s much easier to date that way.

Can't Buy Me Love

For all its techno wizardry, match.com follows simple, if outmoded, rules of dating. In the real world you might linger at the bar, building up the courage to approach the object of your desire, practising your witty and ironic opener in your head, before going for the kill. On match.com you send a virtual wink. It lets the other person know that you’re interested.

If, like me, you’ve registered for match.com but not yet paid the subscription fee, winking is all you can do. It’s like being outside of the bar, pushing your face up against the glass and winking at the hottie in the short dress. Without paying the cover charge you’re just a weirdo, winking.

And so, I’m tempted to pay the subscription charge (I figure I’m pretty weird as it is), but wonder how else I could invest that money towards finding a date…

New shirt: £30
Cover charge: £6
Drinks: £30
Cab fare home: £10
Pot noodle: £1.20
Watching Jonathan Ross on your own: Priceless.

Right. Where’s my credit card?

Tall, dark and handsome seeks short and fat

It’s no good bragging about having a bachelors degree or a knowledge of modern Czech literature when you can’t even work the multiple choice section of match.com’s profile builder. It seems, in my haste to get my own written statement right, I rushed building an accurate portrait of my desired match.

If I didn’t already sound desperate imagine reading a profile that seeks a woman anywhere between 3’1’’ and 8’11''. Also, I checked ‘heavyset’, thinking it meant busty – like having a heavy set. Apparently it does not.

So, before I’m inundated with short and squat dates, I’m changing my profile. Again.

Meeting with Approval

Online dating service, Match.com, was quicker than I had expected in reviewing the personal profile I’d submitted to the site. Yep, within two hours of an estimated 72, a member of staff had deemed my submission inappropriate and declined to approve it for publication. “A portion appears to be confusing, filled with random text, cut off mid-paragraph or inappropriate, but it may be approved with minor changes,” the e-mail read.

It was a disheartening start to what was becoming a typical dating experience. If Match.com is singles’ night at the virtual bar of online dating, I had just been declined entry on account of my footwear.

So, I changed my shoes and my approach, read the site’s advice, which recommended opening with a joke (a suggestion I took literally), and submitted my updated profile to almost instant approval. Not only that, I’m told, but its “being considered for the member spotlight.” It can’t have been the picture.

So, a guy walks into a bar…“ouch!” This clumsy but charming man is seeking someone to fall about laughing with. Knock knock…

By day, a mild-mannered designer; by night, a fun loving, music aficionado, this Clark Kent is looking for his Lois Lane, or something less cheesy. Though I’ve never – quite gladly – been mistaken for a bird, or indeed a plane, I like to think that beneath the spectacles and the modest, self-deprecating demeanour is something of a Superman.

I’m not always this annoying. But I really do like music. I listen to everything from Ryan Adams to Frank Zappa, a lot of Indie stuff, and even soul and funk. In fact, I wrote my university dissertation on the latter and its relationship to the Civil Rights Movement in America.

I don’t expect my match to know anything about that! But I am looking for somebody who appreciates good conversation, likes to laugh (I mean who doesn’t – it’s brilliant), and enjoys life. So if you are indeed alive get in touch!

Okay, so the ending sounds a little desperate, my only request being that my date can talk, listen and, essentially, breathe. Still, I’m not holding my breath. My profile’s been online all of 8 hours. And been viewed once. And that was me.