There's no such thing as a three lunch

It used to be I’d say to people, “hey, I’m getting kind of fat.” And people would say, “what are talking about?” with some surprise, “you’re totally skinny.” Then recently, I’d say the same, and they’d go, “yeah, you are putting on some weight.” Now, quite remarkably, people are volunteering this information. “Dude,” they say, looking at my belly. “You’re fat.”

How did this happen? In just a few months I’ve gone from floater to bloater. My blazers are tight (and not like in an indie rock and roll kind of way), my jeans don’t fit and, well, I don’t even want to talk about the swelling in my feet. I find myself wearing more black, saying stuff like, “moment on the lips, lifetime on the hips”, and asking retails assistants if my bum looks big in any number of outfits.

Now that everybody and their mama is noticing (never mind that my lifestyle is inherently unhealthy), I feel driven by vanity to act quickly. This involves switching from regular M&S ready meals to their ‘Count on Us’ low-calorie range, drinking spirits instead of beer and occasionally – get this – walking over to the TV to change the channel. (That won’t last.)

But, before my toes disappear beneath the shadow of my belly, I am going to have to do something. Even if that means just eating the one lunch.

Romeo, Juliet and her three kids

When a friend of mine, Amanda Mullins, called Friday night and suggested I go to bed early in preparation for the ball she and her husband had invited me to, I did just that. Though it was early, like early morning, by the time I got to bed and late afternoon when I woke up and vowed to never drink again.

I was therefore most excited, and somewhat hungover, to attend the Prestfelde School Summer Ball, an annual knees-up for the sort of well-to-do parents whose incomes could afford its offspring’s private education. And so, as a childless, single, twentysomething male, I expected to fit right in, though perhaps bore more likeness to its pupils than parents.

The Mullins had invited me – and I was flattered – because they couldn’t think of “another single guy” and, frankly, it doesn’t get any more single than this. They had a spare seat on their table that needed filling and my ass stepped up – and sat down – to the job. I didn’t really give much thought to whom I might be sitting next to, or whether my attendance made an even number and therefore some lucky lady’s night.

Was this a blind date?

When Amanda’s husband, Steve, picked me up yesterday afternoon for a little pre-ball drinkage that question was answered. No, Steve was not my date. She was inside, finishing her nails, and while Steve ran in to collect her, I spoke to her neighbours and realised that this was very much a date.
“She looks absolutely stunning,” one said. “She’s doing her nails last.”
“Yep,” I said. “That’s the way I do it.”

Then out she came – Juliet – and, true to her neighbour’s word, looked, and this is no overstatement, absolutely stunning. I suddenly felt tiny in my suit and swore that the guy who had rented it to me had only convinced me that it fit because it was late in the day and they didn’t actually have my size. Bastard.
“Hi,” I said, extending a hand from somewhere in my massive dinner jacket. “I’m San.”
“Nails,” she said.
“Right.” And the evening would continue, in a mostly awkward fashion. “We can just wave.”

And, as we left, three children did, waving at Juliet and staring at the boy that sat beside her, not much older than themselves. Staring back at little Alvin, Simon and Theodore, I realised that they were her kids and I was on date with – in its literal sense – a MILF. And she looked stunning - tall, dark, handsome in a feminine way, and in a sexy black dress that plunged in all the right places. She even looked like a certain soap star I’d harboured strong feelings for. This was going great, I thought. But things were about to get worse.

Drinks with the Mullins became an open discussion about kids and grandkids even. And since I’m not long out of my own childhood I could at least bring a different perspective to the table. When Juliet left to go outside for a cigarette I decided to take up smoking and join her. It was then that we realised the twelve years between us. “That’s a whole person!” she exclaimed. “That’s almost a teenager.”
I tried to downplay it by stepping a little closer and giving it the old, “you’re as young as the person you feel,” but in saying so, sounded about twelve.

The evening continued in much the same way. She popped out for a smoke, I joined her, said something wildly inappropriate, and generally ballsed it up. I asked her to dance however, which I thought was rather appropriate, since we were at a ball, but she insisted that she didn’t. This, like my sudden smoking habit, was untrue, and I soon found myself swinging into her on the dance floor. It seems we were both with other people and, at least, having a good time, albeit not with each other.

And while Juliet swung with Steve – or so it seemed – Amanda asked how it was going.
“Yeah good,” I said. “I think. I mean, I haven’t actually seen her very much.”
“I’m sorry, San,” She said, genuinely apologetic. “I thought you were the same age - that you might have something in common.”
“She’s 34.” I said. “And yeah, I suppose, she likes Coldplay.”
“I like Coldplay!”
“Everybody likes Coldplay.” We both burst into laughter with this and, while the house band segued into a rather jazzy version of ‘Yellow’, took to the dance floor. The disco lights dimmed a predictable colour and, looking around at all the parents, all tuxes and ball gowns aglow, I realised that for one night, with their kids tucked in bed, they were in their twenties again. Amanda was totally drunk, Steve was dancing outrageously with my date, and I think someone was even smoking a spliff outside. And everybody was liking Coldplay.

And when I kissed Juliet goodnight I knew that in the morning she’d be in her thirties again, and I wondered if, in ten summer’s time, I might be here, in my thirties, acting twenty and with kids of my own. It was a sobering thought. And, with it, I vowed to never drink again.

Message from sansharma.com

Below is the result of your feedback form. It was submitted by Bylli Crayone (xxx@Yahoo.com) on Tuesday, June 21, 2005 at 20:14:49

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Location: Boston, MA USA

Body: Hi. I found your site from another fan of MJ who had your pic on her site. I thought to myself "Wow, he is cute!" I clicked the photo thinking it would make the photo bigger but instead brought me to your website. Very impressive. I think you are amazing and would love the opportunity to talk or even meet you.

Sincerly, An online Admirer.

~Bylli Crayone

www.BylliCrayone.com

write back please.

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Your Hapless Hero

People have noted that I, more so than others, seem to find myself in those awkward situations that are funny in retrospect. Perhaps, with a mixture of oddball humour and sadomasochism, I place myself in such situations. Beth has suggested that it’s not the frequency with which they happen but the way in which they are told. Or maybe I’m just that goofy. Either way, the following – unfortunately – really did happen to me. And all in the space of a few days.

---

The weather has been unusually hot. Or so it seems. We Brits, I’ve noticed, are always surprised by the changing of seasons. It’s like we didn’t know it was coming. And although it’s June, generally considered a summer month, the warm and pleasant weather is a major topic of conversation. “Isn’t it hot?” we say to one another, and will continue to until around October when we’ll say, “Isn’t it cold?”

This past weekend was particularly hot and so I slept with my bedroom window wide open. As did, so it transpired, the girl upstairs. She’s pleasant enough and though we’ve not struck an immediate friendship exactly, we’re certainly on “hi” and “hello” terms.

I was most surprised in the morning however to hear her add another greeting to our phrasebook. “Good morning,” she said, followed by a yawn and the sort of creaking that I can only assume was her stretching in her bed.
“Ah,” I said, pleasantly surprised. “Good morning.”
Then, after another creak, this time louder, a third person added, “good morning.” It seems, further to my surprise, that she was not alone. I was, or so it felt, more so than ever and while my neighbour and her male friend continued their creaking I rolled over, awkwardly, and hid under the covers.

---

More often than not my trips to the supermarket are long overdue and I find myself walking back with more bags than I can manage. On this particular morning I hadn’t walked far at all when two bags broke and twelve bottles of Becks smashed around me in a sort of fountain of beer.

I’d not even made it passed the car park and, since it was a Saturday, there was plenty in the way of unhelpful though entertained shoppers. One of whom was an old lady, so British in her unfriendliness that she stared at me as though I’d wronged her in some way. “That wasn’t very clever, was it?” she snarled. “Well, I wasn’t going for clever.” I quipped, before crouching down to pick up the pieces. What my motivation was exactly, I don’t know, but what happened next was an even greater mystery.

I’ve come to accept that the zipper on my jeans has a tendency to open by itself. I kind of view it as being playful, though at times inappropriate. (Again, my apologies to Shrewsbury High School.) But I’ve never known the top button to undo itself. That was until this moment, crouched in a pool of beer, when I stood out of my jeans. That’s right. I stood up. My jeans did not. And the little old lady suddenly fell silent. As embarrassed as I was, I was quite proud of that fact.

---

No pride could be gleamed however from this story. Already embarrassed by the heat rash that the surprising weather had caused my face, it was with reluctance that I accepted an invitation to a barbecue with my friend Sïan. Told that – “rash or no rash” – I could not flake (though, if you saw my face, you’d beg to differ), I met Sïan after work and we caught a cab to the barbecue. I’d no sooner commented on the taxi’s clean upholstery when I had the sort of nosebleed that upholstery dreads.

To make matters worse nobody had anything to stop the bleeding. Well, that is nobody had any tissue. Sian however had panty liner, which she – in the panic and the rush hour traffic - shoved under my nose. Imagine the scene, if you will: I’m sitting in a stationary taxi, pedestrians wandering past, holding a bloody panty liner to my face. I’m sure the other guests were similarly charmed with the delicacy I brought to the barbecue. “Gosh,” one said, looking over. “Isn’t it hot?”

Michael Jackson: The Monster that Lurks Among Us

The three month trial that ended this week with the acquittal of Michael Jackson was the ultimate assassination-of-character attempt on the one time King of Pop. And as he emerged for the final time from the Santa Maria courthouse Monday he was a free, albeit shadow of a man, hobbling to his SUV, barely managing to raise a hand to acknowledge his fans, many of whom recognise him now only as a zombie from his Thriller music video.

He appeared the relic of a human being, whom once, to quote Sir Bob Geldof, sang “with the voice of angels. And when his feet move, you can see God dancing.” His fall from grace was neatly packaged for network television and we gawped and gazed, not at the mastery of his art, but at the curiosity of his demise. From master to monstrosity, Michael Jackson is, at best, a freak.

But Michael Jackson is us.

Since he was a child, he has had the tragic misfortune of having been cast as a lightning rod for our cultural diseases: racism, homophobia, gender confusion, celebrity obsession, sexual obsession, materialism, beauty obsession, paedophilia, security obsession. The bomb that loomed over Jackson’s head over the last few months can not be underestimated.

And it took 12 sensible-minded men and women seven days to defuse it.

We can see the way American culture has deteriorated to a society at war with itself – eager to demonize, unable to heal – in the tragic deterioration of Jackson's face and form. The crossover King of the 1980s, who offered a true promise, to quote Funkadelic, of “one nation under a groove,” left the courthouse on Monday to a more divided America.

The ugly ordeal of the past few months revealed a monster that lurks among us. Only it turns out the monster was not the freak.

It was the assassin.

Jerry Maguire 2

Hello. Of all American romantic comedies, Jerry Maguire is probably the least likely to spawn a sequel. That is, of course, unless Tom Cruise and Renée Zellweger were to reprise their roles for a decidedly downbeat divorce drama. (Can you imagine? Jerry Maguire 2: “Show me the child support!”)

Still, I delivered a memo with such veracity last night that it left me feeling, and not for the first time, like our chisel-jawed hero. Short of taking the gold fish with me (I do hope you’ve seen the film), I outlined my idea to revolutionise business to a somewhat panic-stricken company director.

“Oh God. What is that?” She asked, pointing at page three of the memo.
“That...that is a sketch of my brain.”
“Right.”
“It delineates how much of it I use for each task…”
“Was there a need for the blood?”
“I thought it would add...effect.” Then, standing suddenly, I shouted, “who’s with me?!”
“San, there’s no-one else in the room.”

And so the meeting continued. She pointed at indecipherable sketches; I explained my intentions; all the while, skating the underside of thin-ice, aware that at any point – and I almost expected it at the page headed, “Don't Chase Money” – she might present me with a box of my belongings (which is always the way people are fired in movies. Have you noticed?).

Instead, she went very quiet, gathering her thoughts, I guess, and the memo that lay strewn across the table. And in the silence, I pictured a box somewhere, filling with executive toys, issues of NME, an assortment of biscuits, and whatever else I have on my office desk (overdue work probably).

It’s unlikely that I will be fired. But, if I did have to go, it would be nice to have a fish or a Renée Zellweger to take with me. And you, of course. Though I had you at ‘hello,’ right?

See You Next Thursday

It’s the fear of right wing Daily Mail readers everywhere: The colourful immigrants that dot our towns are not painting them red, or enriching them with their cultures, but quietly muttering insults upon its locals. Have you ever sat on a train, overheard foreign language speakers and thought, for a minute, that the joke they’re sharing with their friends is on you?

Surely not, I thought. But today, I found myself – and not for the first time – sharing the fears of a Daily Mail reader. (The first time I was genuinely worried about the Y2K Bug.)

The Town Frier in Shrewsbury is a brilliantly named chip shop in the centre of town, and run by a family of Indian immigrants, one of whom I’ve taken a particularly shine too. (Chip shop workers too, I find, are particularly shiny people.) He’s made a sincere effort to sound English and, since knowing him, I’ve noticed an improvement from the Carry On language of yesteryear, to the sort of Gallagher brother English he employs today, going as far as referring to his younger brother as “our kid.”

He does usually converse with his family in Punjabi, and fair enough. Today however the conversation took a turn for the worse and, upon handing the customer ahead of me his order, he muttered a word that, translated into English, is generally considered the language’s lowest point. To his credit, however, it was at least in keeping with his adopted Gallagher tone.

And if you haven’t already guessed it, a Google search, at least with the Safe Filter on, returns a dissertation on the word’s cultural history.

****: A Cultural History

English Tea

"What happens when you leave tea in a cup overnight?" My Gran asks - in Punjabi - while I sip on a good English cuppa.
I reply the best I can - in English. "Er, Santa Claus drinks it?"
"The cup stains black."
"Right."
"So, what do you think happens to your insides when you drink tea?"
Surely not, I think to myself. Overwhelmed by this, I take one last breath of fresh air before the stale lecture about what I should and should not be drinking begins.

Water, milk and orange juice are all good apparently. (One can only imagine the colours swilling inside my gran's belly.)
"Do you drink water?" She asks.
"In my tea I do." It's a good job I didn't mention all the Guinness that was had last night.

She actually believes this stuff though, that's the funny thing. She actually thinks, as I write this, that I'm staining my soul, or what remains of it, black. You see, she thinks it's despicable that I speak so little Punjabi, though I can understand most. I would like to defend myself by saying that she's been in England for fifty years, while I've seen the occasional Bollywood movie, and still my Punjabi is streets ahead of her English, but a) it's a bit disrespectful and b) my command of the language is not yet that great.

I'm now fearing for my insides as she shoves a large and brightly coloured Indian dried milk pudding under my nose. I try some.
"You like?" That's the most English she can manage. That, and "you no like?" depending on the situation.
"Yes Gran," I say. But, like brightly coloured, saccharine Bollywood movies, it's definitely one for small doses. And so I decline a second helping - or forcing, rather.
"You either like it or you don't. I don't understand." We're back to Punjabi now and then, in a shock move, she unleashes a torrent of English. "You like it? You no like it?"
I swear to God, or rather many many limbed Gods, if my family weren't Hindu they'd be Jewish. And so I open my mouth, though not to speak, take another bite and think this would all taste a lot better with some good English tea.

Lost in Transmission

You may remember the story of Dana, the girl from Ohio, the bunch of roses I sent and the ‘thank you’ that never was: an episode we at sansharma.com are calling ‘flowergate’ (conjures a lovely image, doesn’t it?). I had just as soon put the whole incident behind me when, late last night, my mobile beeped (or rather played a Bright Eyes song, as I have it set) with a message. It was Dana, clearly unfamiliar with the workings of the world clock, texting at what was already an unsociable hour in her time zone, and, evidently, the middle of night in mine.
“How are you doing” it read, sans punctuation. “Well I hope”

Having just woken up from a particularly harrowing dream (Vanessa Feltz again), my brain, booting in Safe Mode, struggled with the syntax of the short and punctuation-free message. I remembered how texting is far less of a common thing in America and assumed that, being unfamiliar with the system altogether, Dana had sent the message prematurely, failing to finish her sentence.
“Well I hope,” she may have intended to write, “you might forgive me for not thanking you sooner…”

And so in my semi-slumber I replied with what, in retrospect, might seem a remarkably rude message.
“If there was anything interesting in that message,” I wrote. “I didn’t get it,” thinking, of course, that something was lost in transmission. Then, alluding to the bunch of roses, “did you get a delivery recently?”

No sooner was my message delivered when hers suddenly made sense. “How are you doing?” it should have read, question mark and all. “Well, I hope.” Full stop. “Well, I hope.” Not, “well I hope...Liverpool win the bloody Champions League tomorrow night.” Needless to say, she did not reply to my message. I doubt even that she got my flowers. She would have said thanks, wouldn’t she? Well one would hope so…

Love, In Actual Fact

Driving to the airport tonight at top speed and with the Bridget Jones soundtrack ablaring, I had the odd feeling that I was on some romantic quest to halt the departure of an unrequited loved one. Odd especially since I am in, actual fact, collecting my parents, whom I love...requitedly (though unromantically), on return from their holiday. Even now, sitting in arrivals I’m tempted to run at someone and say, “Stop! I bloody love you!” In fact, I’m actually considering the redhead in the knee-high boots. Imagine how that would go…
“Pardon?”
“I said ‘I love you’…what’s your name?”
“What?!”
“That doesn’t matter to me. So, I don’t know your name…” A crowd is now forming around us. A security guard puts down his scanning device and listens in. An air hostess stops in her tracks. “I don’t even know if you have a boyfriend - ”
“I’m married.”
“Right.” Just then hubby walks over. “I didn’t know that. But I do know – what is your name?”
“Diane.”
“Right. I do know, Diana –”
“It’s Diane.”
“Sorry – Diane. I do know that I love you.” With that female members of the audience swoon. “And you mustn’t get on that plane.”
“What’s going on here, Diane?” Diane’s husband is a remarkably large man, and I begin to wish that I'd picked on the minger in the tracksuit. She’s obviously single. “Is this bloke bothering you?”
“He says I mustn’t get on the plane.” The audience awakes from the slumber of their swooning and gasps in fear.
“Nobody board the plane!” The husband shouts to the crowd. And then quieter but with no less urgency, to me. “Especially not you.” Then everything goes dark.

Awaking from this thought I’m relieved to find that I am not covered in blood and reconsider the whole romantic terrorism thing altogether. Instead, I watch returnees wheel their luggage from the carousel to the crowd, appearing from behind a screen, looking tanned and tired and for family and friends. As I stand with them and behind the barrier that separates the tanned from the untanned (which I am, I’m not sure), I think to myself that it’s an arrangement not unfamiliar to celebrities the world over. The security, the barricades, the adoring fans. Throw in some red carpet, supermodel Caprice and a Star Wars prequel (not much, I know) and we’ve got ourselves a movie premiere.

The old man approaching is there already, waving at nobody in particular but enjoying his moment all the same. Hey, I know the next couple...It’s R2D2 and C3PO – my mum and dad, back from a Balearic Island, far, far away.

Sorry for the Delay

Sorry for the delay…Man, I start a lot of sentences that way.
“Sorry for the delay in replying…”
“Sorry for the delay getting here…”
“Sorry for the delay in child support, Little Jimmy (which is what we’ve called him)...”

I am sorry for not having written sooner. Although, to be fair, I have been writing – but it’s been so sub-standard that I’ve had to lock it away in a safe. Perhaps one day it’ll appear as a bootleg at a book fair. (Do authors have bootlegs? This is how much I read.)

This lack of anything interesting to write about, I’m sure, comes from a lack of doing anything interesting. You don’t want to know what I’ve been doing. Although, now I feel obliged to tell you, before you draw your own – very sinister – conclusions.

I’m currently fifteen miles (and five years) from my flat, and in the town where I spent my formative years, house-sitting for my parents while they sit on a Balearic Island, soaking up the sun. And since I’m unable to compromise the life of comfort and convenience that I have become accustomed to at the flat, I find myself driving between my two residences several times a day.

All this is very tiring. So much so that I’m getting my chores all mixed up and have started watering the dog and walking the plants. This is one reason for my delay in writing. Another is that things are particularly busy at work. I don’t imagine if I worked day and night that I’d get everything done. And so, when I’m wide awake, and less busy, I’ll write more. I am really sorry for the delay.

Thank you, please

I hold doors open for people all the time. Sometimes it’s an inconvenience. You know, when you’ve already walked quite some way but see someone coming and hang back in a sort of limbo, holding the door with just a few fingers and an act of balance. But they say “thanks.” And I let people out at junctions when I’m driving. I can be there for a while, just waving people through. They nod. Sometimes they mouth the words. But it’s usually “thank you”. (Once it I think it was, “what are you doing? I saw you here an hour ago!”) And you know, if you’re in my office, and I’m making a cup of tea, I’ll make you one. And you’ll probably say thanks. But these are minor gestures really. Small acts of kindness. Nothing a little appreciation doesn’t make worthwhile. So imagine, if one day, you do all those things – those little things – and add to them one grand gesture. And then no “thank you”.

You see, I met this girl...And so many stories start this way, but this one doesn’t end in tears, or a fleeing to America, or a restraining order. This girl, and I think I’ve mentioned her already, I met in Miami (so we were already in America – no fleeing necessary) and, frankly, we hooked up for the time I was there. Nothing serious. I mean, we did get on (and ‘it on’), and exchanged contact details and all that, but, of course, had no realistic plan to see each other again. She did however ask me to call her some time for a chat, but I got the impression that she didn’t really think that I would. And, in fairness, I didn’t.

But, last week, when Cinco de Maya struck (if you don’t know, a sort of Mexican holiday where there’s lots of beer and Gringos are killed and eaten), I thought to send a case of Corona to her home in Ohio. I thought it’d be a kind gesture. Like a ‘I-had-a-great-time-haven’t-forgotten-you-the-results-were-negative-from-the-clinic’ type thing. But it turns out, such are the laws in Ohio, that it’s incredibly difficult, if illegal, to order alcohol online. And so, with the determination to send something, I ordered flowers, albeit roses, but not red and not with a note worth noting. I didn’t mention the clinic, but did allude to the great time we had together and my original, though unhatched, plan to send her a case of beer. It was kind of funny actually and, at least I thought, sweet. And certainly deserving of a “thank you”.

But here we are. Not a phone call. Not an e-mail. Not even a nod. No “thanks” whatsoever. But it’s not like I’m going to ask for one. (If I did, I would probably say “please.”) And so, as my good friend Beth kindly calculates the ludicrous cost per rose of this grand gesture, and I wonder if I might get a refund, I ask you, dear reader: when did a “thank you” require a “please”?

The Company I Keep

It’s not unusual in my line of work to find myself in the company of “grown-ups”. At 22, a director of a company, and a darling of local press, I am the Doogie Howser of the Shropshire business network. I expect at least a ten year gap either side whenever I sit at a business dinner. Imagine my surprise then tonight, when I found myself sandwiched between two high school girls.

Emma Jordan from Bridgnorth and Lucy Fairweather from Shrewsbury were tonight representing their schools at a Shropshire Young Enterprise Awards dinner and I, the middle-man, was there to lend a hand – or two, actually - applauding the names in envelopes.

Having only been in television audiences for the Oscars, Grammies and Randies (the Porn Awards), I hadn’t realised what long and laborious things they can be. Obviously, I don’t applaud the winners from my sofa at home (I may have cheered at Ron Jeremy’s Lifetime Achievement Award), but tonight I was pretty exhausted from all the clapping. I decided mid-way to clap only once per winner, which others at my table thought was sort of rude, and otherwise reserved my energy for the girls either side.

Conversation however, was no less laborious.

“So…do you have any nicknames, Emma?”
“Yes,” she said, rather timidly. “HP.”
“Ah…big fan of brown sauce?”
“No.”
“IT solutions company?” I scratched my head. “Harry Potter?”
I never did find out. Instead I turned to Lucy. “So…do you like brown sauce?”

When I come to think of it, I don’t think I got more than one word responses from either the entire night. And so it dragged on, one syllable at a time. And I thought to myself how rarely I sit beside someone my own age. It’s either one word or long words. If I could take the average age of the company I keep I might find someone who speaks with the right amount of syllables – someone my own age, at least.

“Now for the award we’ve all been waiting for,” the compare announced. “The award for best written report.”

And then it dawned on me, I’m looking for them in all the wrong places.

Domestic Bliss

My friend, Pete, and I use the term loosely, has expressed his doubt in my ability to not sound “like a complete wanker” (as I feared in the post below) and actually write altogether.

Perhaps the very nature of having a blog, a web site and a short-run of sansharma.com t-shirts, is, in itself, rather wankerish, but before I move on from that awful word, its variations (wankerisms, if you will), and the subject altogether, I’d like to assure you that my delay in writing is due to nothing more sinister than the my recent indulgence in domestic bliss.

What’s this? Has our lanky hero finally settled down and made an honest man of…himself? Not quite. I mean ‘domestic’ as in appliances. Though my reckless spending is usually reserved for the type of gizmo and gadgetry of a teenage boy’s dry dreams, I recently made the snowy trek from the black to the white goods section at the local electrical superstore and came home with an object of desire that is ultimately a treat for the nose, rather than the eyes or the ears.

Before you think that I’m this excited about a plug-in air freshener (though some are indeed very exciting) let me say that I bought a new washer and dryer and am smelling so fresh and so clean.

Is it weird to be this excited about laundry? Maybe it is. But bear in mind that, since November, I have fortnightly carried my soiled clothing through the streets of Shrewsbury to a colleague’s washing machine and back, damp and steaming, through a similarly hot and sweaty crowd of pubbers and clubbers.

Now, as I write, the machine spins just behind me, its 1200rpm vibrating my chair in a way that is not entirely unpleasant. Things are, in fact, getting quite hot and steamy. This is the worst kind of domestic bliss.

Sounds Like...

I'm sure, blog readers, that you've noticed a decline in quality since my editor-in-chief, Beth, up and left me, her post, and the long arm of the law, for a future of fugitivity in the US.

My most recent post, short of upsetting the friends, family and colleagues to whom I have recently returned, elicited a phone call from the Beth and some suggestions on my writing style.

"Before you post an entry," she began. "Just think, 'does this make me sound like a complete wanker?'"

And so with Beth's simple yet effective test in mind I hope you'll notice an improvement of sorts. Or at least a blogger, sounding less like a wanker.

These Boots

If I flirted with happiness in America, it's certainly been given the boot today. And it took a severe kicking when I found myself violently thrust into life – or something like it – in Cruel Britannia.

I’m staying with my parents in Telford, Shropshire this weekend, my sisters in tow, and suddenly my post-vacation blues have been given a harmonica and a bottle of Southern Comfort. My family, though usually served on the rocks, have been pretty neat and, at least, have appeared interested in my travels.

There was a moment however, shopping with my sister and my mum, when I thought I might become irrational. We went to a fabric shop, a garden centre and a car accessory store, none of which stocked anything that I could use: I don’t have a car; I don’t have a garden; and I have little or no interest in buying fabric.

Worse still, immersed as I was in Telford's Saturday shopper crowd, I thought what a generally unattractive people the British public are. Sure, there are the occasional gems – Kiera Knightly, Catherine Zeta Jones, Princess Diana – but it’s always the same old story: they move to America, or they marry a Douglas...or they die.

Still, I shouldn't judge England by Telford's standards. It’s not like its streets are flooded with talent scouts, looking for England’s next top model. The attractive people, they’ve realised, have fled to the cities, or at least, a little north, to Shropshire's county town, Shrewsbury.

With this thought, and some (northern) comfort, I wandered the garden centre and resisted the temptation of irrationality. I did not smash the terracotta pots that I held for my sister, but instead subjected her and the rest of my family to a rather thorough (though not wholly comprehensive) slideshow of my travels.

Swigging on our memories, happiness and I flirted again, and I thought to myself, with all the rationality of a drunk, about taking another trip. This time however, I'll be heading north and back home, to Shrewsbury. And though these boots were made for walking, and maybe one of these days that's what they'll do, tonight I'm looking forward to taking them off, putting my feet up and having a drink, perhaps a Corona, to the future.

Postcard from grey skies

What was I thinking? After a seven hour flight with the shutters down and only English people to see I'm eating my words and paltry English food. In my last post I waxed lyrical about England and its people and about seeing them differently and can only deduce that between catching all those trains, planes and Greyhound buses, I caught the great American love bug - the Oprahtics, the bloody heart sleeves, and now, back in England, I'm filled with grey skies, faces and frowns. I've seen the English people, from the airport to the train station, paraded before me like a grotesque theatre of the macabre and will have to look much harder to the find the beauty between the beasts. Hello dire customer service, hello England.

Postcard from the Last Day: Atlanta, GA

It's an image some might associate with "real America": Two cops are sitting in a road side diner, sipping coffee and actually eating donuts.

But they're not overweight, as you might imagine, nor are they male; hell, they're not even White! What's going on? you might ask.

Before they rush off to fight crime (they've actually just ordered more coffee), I think to myself, on the final day of my trip, of the lessons that I've learned. Have I learned about myself? Sure. I've learned that I have very sensitive teeth; that I'm a chocoholic (but for Corona); and that I'm not so bad with women (and that having a British accent, though only incidental back home, is pretty valuable here).

I've also learned that the pursuit of "real America", which I suggested was the point of this trip, is pointless in nature. "Real America" is not what I imagined. It's the people that have constantly altered my perception. It's the slim, Black policewomen; the Cubans in Miami; the girl from Dayton, Ohio (who I know for sure does not have a tattoo on the small of her back); the gamblers and the drunks in Las Vegas; the hopeful of Hollywood; Michael Jackson; the ex-girlfriends; the trendy and spendy of San Francisco; the Jazz; the Bostonians.

On the train to the airport at the very outset of this trip I peered into the gardens of suburbia and deduced, like a shitty Dr Watson, that people's lives were roughly the same. I saw paddling pools, rock gardens and patios. But I didn't see the people.

And though I don't expect to see slim, Black policwomen, or Michael Jackson, for that matter (not until he gets his passport returned, at least), I might look at England and its people through different eyes and, at least until those two weeks in July we Brits call summer, a different light. Goodbye sunshine, goodbye America.

Postcard from South Beach, Miami

In his 1997 hit, 'Miami', West Philidephia (born and raised) Will Smith offered an insightful and comprehensive introduction to the Sunshine State's very own Sin City. And as I near the end of my stay here on South Beach I find truth in the former Fresh Prince of Bel Air's lyrics. True dat, you might say.

Miami is an intoxicatingly beautiful place, awash with sunlight intensified natural colours and, at night, aglow under a neon lit skyline. Looking out at palm trees swaying in the breeze and, with some guilt, a topless beach, it is hard to imagine a better looking city.

Half of its two million population is Hispanic, the vast majority Cuban; all, it seems, beautiful.

Postcard from the small of a back

Is it just me, or is anybody else beginning to find girls who don't have tatoos on the small of their backs exotic?

Postcard from Ohio. That's right. Ohio.

Cincinnati, Ohio is probably the best place to write about Las Vegas, and as I await my connecting flight to Miami, a sobering respite from the two notorious party towns on my itinerary.

And although I made a deal with myself that what happens in Vegas stays in Vegas, I can tell you this: Never before have the relative creative powers of man and nature inspired and appalled me with such veracity than yesterday. It is a story of love and hate. Two houses, both alike in magnitude, the first the Vegas Strip, painted in broad, neon brush strokes; the second, the Grand Canyon, in a much gentler orange hue, are built on and into the neighbouring states of Nevada and Arizona.

It took but a short, and albeit expensive, helicopter trip to realise that Vegas, the glowing and glamourous lady of the night was a gaudy and vulgar thing by day. And, as is so often the case the "morning after", I was hungover, a few bob short and filled with regret.

But flying into the Canyon last night I fell in love. Perhaps because, sitting as I was, awkwardly between two Honeymooning couples, there was a lot of love in the air. Nevertheless, this gaping 18 mile wide hole in the lunar-like landscape is a thing of magnificent beauty. And although I spent a lot money getting there it was certainly well spent. And a much safer bet than Vegas.

Postcard from Hollywood

They say that LA can be described as 19 suburbs in search of a city. And tonight, sitting in one just two blocks from Hollywood boulevard, I imagine that the 19 or so people at the bar are in search of something no less imaginary.

Whereas other bars have looked upon my spectacle wearing, coffee sipping, notebook scribbling self with some suspicion, in Hollywood I'm just another writer, and looking around I wonder if I'll ever see these people in the movies or on television.

Tonight, I highly doubt it. Statistically speaking the odds are very slim. Perhaps only one of the 19 at the bar will find what they're looking for - fame, fortune, a fan-base. But for the 18 others, like suburbs in search of a city, those dreams will remain undiscovered. Here, like nowhere else, the stars light the pavements and not the sky. "Are you a writer?" the barman asks. And since everybody else here is acting, I nod. "Welcome to Hollywood."

Postcard from Neverland

Fumbling in my blazer pocket, which hangs noticeably on non-Michael Jackson t-shirt clad shoulders, I feel my way through Granola bars and candy for a non-perishable to give to the King of Pop. Everybody else here has fluffy toys, books and banners. All I find is a 30c postcard from Santa Cruz, actually intended for another aficionado of small boys, my mate Steve from Essex. It shows a freshly caught shark, blood dripping from its mouth. Not the most appropriate gift for a self-professed lover of animals (and indeed proponent of violence towards), but nevertheless I scrawl on the back:

Dear Michael Jackson,
Look what I caught fishing! If you get a chance visit my website, sansharma.com
Love,
San (from England)

I added the "from England" in case he knew another San in the area. Almost as soon as I do a black SUV drives up to the gates. Michael Jackson is back, after a day in court, to what he calls home and what we, this side of the gate, call Neverland.

Like shabbily dressed G8 delegates the crowd here have come from major industrialised nations: the US, France, Germany, Spain, Japan, Australia and, as represented by yours truly (and regrettably one other guy from Blackpool) the UK. And what with all the Jesus Juice we've been sipping I desperately need to pee. And while the others here are wriggling with excitement, I am only to keep it in.

But when his window winds down and an enormous white hand with alabaster fingers extends to net the gifts thrust before him I nearly let it out. Instead, and after 15 years of fan worship and adulation, face to gaunt, ghostlike face with my idol, I ask him if I can use his bathroom, laugh nervously and hand him a postcard of a bloody fish.

Postcard from Court

"Welcome to Santa Maria," he says. And then with the blatant disregard for accuracy that we have come to expect from Fox News reporters, "It´s a million miles from England!"

And that´s where I am. Well, more precisely, I´m sitting in the media camp just outside the small courthouse where Michael Jackson is currently fighting multiple charges of abduction, false imprisonment and child molestation.

Here, from a shanty town of satellite dishes and news vans, the media provide daily updates on the court proceeding. But news reports that Santa Maria is a quant and charming place does little to endorse its credibility.

Tomorrow morning however it will become an altogether more glamorous place, albeit under dismal circumstances, when Michael Jackson walks from his blacked-out SUV to the white washed walls of the Santa Maria courthouse.

In the words of two infamous Californians, one the leader of the state, originally from Europe, the other former frontman of the Jackson Five, seemingly from outer space, I'm going to "Beat It" but "I´ll be back."

Postcard from the Camel's Mouth

"Oh, I'll never stroke a camel again."
"Did he bite you?"
"He had my whole hand in his mouth."
"Gosh." The old woman is shaking her head.
"And do you know what his name was?" The woman clearly has no idea. "Saddam."

And so the conversation goes. The man is seated opposite me on a train from Davis to San Jose and wearing a t-shirt with an American flag and the word "Freedom" emblazoned across it. And although I think his shirt is a bit of a joke, I respect the man's logic. Had I heard his camel stories (there were actually two) I might not have visited my ex-girlfriend Amanda, nearly had a hand bitten and a foot in my mouth.

Why I did see her exactly I don't know. But I have just read the novel, High Fidelity (there was also a film). In it, Rob Fleming, avid music fan, lists his all-time top five worst breakups and visits those ex-girlfriends in an effort to understand why his relationships have since followed a template for failure.

I lost interest in the book when the shallow, immature and self-obsessed Rob, with whom I found great kinship, began to grow up. But my travels unwittingly followed a similar course when I visited the two ex-girlfriends of my relationships past.

The first, Beth, lives in Berkeley with her boyfriend; the second, Amanda, with hers in Sacramento. Beth and I remain close friends – best friends, in fact – and meeting with her was nothing but pleasant.

Seeing Mandy however was an altogether different story, and not one penned by Nick Hornby, with a happy ending, or a forthcoming film adaptation starring John Cusack, or anybody anywhere near as suave.

Should I have more than five break-ups from which to choose, mine with Mandy would definitely make the chart. Since I don't, it enters by default. It was nevertheless the sort of breakup that lovelorn Emo songs are made of.

I broke up with her (let's make that clear) in January 2004. (You have to strike between the holidays and certainly before Valentine's Day.) And in the year that has passed, I imagine as most men would, that she never quite got over me. There were actually e-mails to that effect and then a silence that I took to mean that a severe bout of depression had ensued.

My meeting with her last night however proved that not to be the case. On the contrary, she's not turned to the bottle, or a nunnery; nor has she recorded a heartbreak album in the vein of Leonard Cohen. She is in fact doing fine. And after a brief moment of disappointment at this I was too. We enjoyed a mostly pleasant evening: dinner, a moonlit stroll, great conversation. And then suddenly the realization that we were barely strangers. Having shared showers, now sharing a bottle of water seemed somehow inappropriate. It dawned on me that I would probably never see this stranger that I used to know so well ever again. And so I postponed the farewell and arranged to meet before my train out of town the following day.

The train was soon approaching and there was no sign of Amanda. While I waited, the annual Picnic Day parade passed through downtown – a marching band, jugglers, clowns – and I realized that I didn't recognize a single face, painted or otherwise. There is nothing for me here, I thought. Everybody has moved on. And I suddenly looked forward to being back in England, to immersing myself in a world I had thought only temporary, and to grasping with both hands the opportunities and relationships that make a life less ordinary.

I wanted to tell Amanda all this but time was closing in. With just minutes to go before my train showed up she did. With her boyfriend. And, saving my grasping hand for England, I gave her a hug, let go and said goodbye. And suddenly, not seeing this stranger ever again didn't seem so bad after all.

Postcard from the Past

It didn't take a fluxcapacitor and a souped up Delorean to go back in time last night. It took just a train from the Bay Area and some fading memories to give the impression that time has stood still in the Californian college town I left in 2003.

Nothing here has changed very much. Perhaps there are more iPods per head than before, but save for the dangling white cables those heads are the same pretty young things, more often than not, shrouded in blonde hair or baseball caps and not much mystery.

The University of California-Davis is tucked in the Central Valley, just an hour from both snow and sand and about 50 miles north of San Francisco. The campus is a tad more conservative than its big sister in the Bay and has never quite shaken its agricultural roots. Students here still call themselves "Aggies" and a quick glance at the course catalogue tells you that Tractor Driving 101 still runs in fall quarter.

The college does however now offer a broader curriculum, with strong bio-science and engineering departments. It's nightlife department however is rather weak. And without classes to go to (or even classes that I should be going to), I've little to do besides write, remember and move on.

Postcard from 111 Minna Street, San Francisco

Positioning myself equidistant between the bar and the gallery I lean over to the woman admiring the art on display and, in my best impression of a pretentious modern artist, say, "If you have any questions..."
"Oh," she smiles. "What's your name?"
And so we shake hands, I tell her about texture and tone, she tells me about the desert and the flowers and we both pretend to know what we're talking about. But it doesn't matter. I get the impression that everybody on 111 Minna Street is pretending.

It's only 6:30pm but the DJ is already on and playing the kind of house music at the kind of volume that makes any kind of conversation, not least that about modern art, very difficult to conduct. And so for the hour or so that I wait for my late date I sit, look and listen, while Mickey Mouse drills for oil and the 'common man' hangs his head in shame. I overhear a white guy with dreadlocks deciphering the painting's latent symbolism as if he's breaking the Da Vinci Code.

It's no wonder the trendy and spendy of San Francisco hang ideological dilemmas on their walls and trouble themselves with meaning. They are some of the luckiest people in the world - and the most content.

"I have absolutely no reason to leave," Bay Area resident AJ said Tuesday. "And when I do I am ultimately unhappy. There is really no place better."

AJ wakes up, for much of the year, to cloudless blue skies; there are always palm trees; and the Bay and Golden Gate bridges form a right angle at the north east corner of the city.

And when the DJ finishes tonight, quite bizarrely at 10pm (early is the new late apparently), folks will most likely spill into some of the finest restaurants in the country for a decidedly Mediterranean late dinner. Saint Francis would certainly approve. (Though he was homeless and would appreciate any meal, I imagine.)

Postcard from New York City

It is with a touch of jazz that I write this morning's postcard. I'm sitting in the Jazz on the Park hostel on Duke Ellington Boulevard where I spent the night (in the hostel, not on the street).

I was drinking in Chelsea when I met some Danish guys who were on their way to a jazz gig in Greenwich Village. Where abouts exactly, they were not sure, but using the New York City street layout as our rhythm foundation we meandered - improvised, no less - our way to the bar in question.

The jazz was amazing. And in my pursuit of "real America", which I've sort of decided is the purpose of this trip, it dawned on me that this is America's classical music, and as the instruments each played their turn before coming together, democracy in action.

Postcard from Newbury Street, Boston

Bugger. Bugger. Bugger.

My laid back attitude, though endearing to some, has just cost me a date, at least a weekend's worth of sex, and potentially, marriage, babies and a home in Cape Cod.

By the time I got to the restaurant she had gone and without her phone number, surname or any specific address details I'm stuffed.

I know three things. Her name is Cheryl; she works in mortgage; she lives in Cape Cod. And, if I can't find her on Newbury Street where we arranged to meet, or in the narrow Boston bar where we met last night, then that's where I'm heading. Cape Cod, with the little information I have and a blatant disregard for sense and sensibility.

Postcard from Nine Zero, Boston

After having lured Mike from his teaching post in New Hampshire to my hotel room at Nine Zero and a seafood dinner I stood arguing with him in a remarkably narrow Boston bar.

"She's totally checking me out man."
"Sure."
"I'm telling you. It's everytime you look away," I said. "That was a sustained, three second glare."

This went on for some time until the five or so men surrounding her began staring too. At one point they all laughed (inbetween buying her drinks and shoving their cards under her nose). She was frankly the most popular woman in the bar: a cross between Andie Macdowell (and roughly the same age) and Elaine from Seinfeld (you're getting big hair, right?).

With my ears burning (and my loins - I need to see a doctor about that), and not feeling quite brave enough to break the business man barrier surrounding her, I made my exit, touching her arm on my way, and wished her a good night. Soon after she followed me outside, revealed her height (pretty tall) and put her arm in mine.

"Are you coming?" she asked.
A little bit, I thought, and followed her to the next bar.

More alcohol flowed and slowly so too did the unsettling admissions. She wants babies, soon, and - so it transpired - with me. The former swimwear model, it turns out, had spent the evening defending me from the discouragement of the men surrounding her who said that I was a geek. And, in the most backhanded compliment I've ever received, she told them that while I was a geek I was "adorable".

She then asked me to lunch for the following day, which is now. So better run. Those babies won't make themselves.

Postcard from the University of New Hampshire

As we sit under a perfect blue sky, eating ice-cream, drinking beer, smoking cigars and watching the beautiful and scantily clad people of New Hampshire walk by, my university mate Mike assures me that I have an atypical impression of his life as a teaching assistant at UNH. It is a Friday afternoon and the first day of Spring, and whilst it is lovely and warm there are still traces of snow on the hillside, a reminder of a time less hedonsitic.

Postcard from the Days Inn Motel, Atlanta

I can't recommend the Days Inn Motel enough. I can't recommend it at all, in fact. My night was trecherous and while you might blame jet lag I'm pretty sure that it was because every crossing plane (and there were many - Atlanta is the largest airport in the country) sounded as though it were targeting my bed in a pointless act of terror.

And now that I'm sitting in its modest dining room for breakfast I'm trying to work out which of its guests overcame the roar of jet engines last night to express their love for one another. I really hope it's not the couple that have just sat down beside me. They're holding hands across the table. Oh God. It is them.

Postcard from a bar, Atlanta

Leaning over from his personal space to mine the American business man asks, "are you here for the windows and blinds convention?"

When that is a plausible question, I think, it's about time I reconsidered my image.

Postcard from a buffet, Atlanta

Americans can eat. More specifically, Americans can buffet. And they know exactly what they're doing. I'm sitting here at the Mariott Hotel in Atlanta (not because I'm staying here but because I've walked the half-mile, sidewalk-less strip from my Days Inn Motel) with a plate of what looks like canteen food: a lumpy pile of carbs.

The American on the table opposite has very calmly made himself a salad (with just the one dressing) and is now helping himself to a chicken marsala with a side of vegetables while I watch, with a slight pained expression, having ignored the advice of my parents, friends and indeed a nation, and filled up on bread.

Postcard from 27D

I'm sitting in seat 27D, probably the worst seat on the plane, in the middle of the middle isle where neither arm wrest is yours. (You don't realise how much you need them until they take them away.) Writing this is therefore uncomfortable, not least because I suspect the guy to my left is reading this over my shoulder.

I know that I am already in the company of Americans. Obesity is suddenly more common, some have already applauded the pilot and there is a young man in the adjacent isle with a slightly overgrown moustache that's not unlike a ferret. I imagine his name is Dwayne.

The guy sitting to my right is a professor of computer animation who has worked on Ren & Stimpy and The Simpsons and lived for a time in Hollywood. Of course, he could be completely lying - I'll never see him again. He has nevertheless spent considerable time (we're talking hours) proving that he really is that intelligent. And cultured.

"I only watch Art House or foreign language films," he says. And then (honestly) browses the in-flight magazine and says, with some excitement, "ooh, Spanglish is on."

Postcard from the departures lounge

Whenever I get to an airport I have a sudden sinking feeling that I've had a moment of madness and got the day completely wrong. Or the time. Or the whole darn thing. And just before the check-in clerk prints the boarding pass I imagine she'll say, "excuse me sir, you're in the wrong airport," or the MI5 will swoop down from the ceiling (a la Mission Impossible Tom Cruise), declare me a terrorist and subject me to unspeakable acts of torture. Since 9/11 (or what is technically 11/9 here) I imagine that every brown man suspects even himself of being a terrorist - like he just didn't realise he was, or he forgot. And though I've packed nothing more sinister than an excessive number of hair styling products I am convinced that I'll by flying to Atlanta via Guantanamo Bay.

Postcard from the train

There's a strange feeling of Godliness (is that a word?) riding a train over suburbia, looking down at the tiny houses, and the tiny people, cleaning their tiny cars. And it doesn't seem real somehow. More like Legoland, or those miniture model villages (which are incidentally popular amongst megalomaniacs).

It also allows a rare viewing into the lives that people close away. Fences that keep neighbours from peering in are, from this height, redundant and look more like a grid, or a repeat pattern, that suggests that people's lives are roughly the same. Some have inflatible paddling pools, some rock gardens, some, for the idle green fingered, fence to fence concrete patio. But they all share the same postcode and look up at the same patch of sky.

My excitement, the reason I am shaking my leg, is because I am about to embark on a tour of North America and, periodically, look up at different skies, roam 'zip code' zones (oh yeah) and, if only for three weeks, live a life less ordinary.

Bebo Be Gone

If, like me, you shy from junk mail, avoid 'keep me informed' tick boxes, and savour actual human contact above all else, then you may have noted with annoyance, Bebo, the new online service that promises to keep you connected by synchronising address books and essentially replacing a basic procedure – and indeed, the smallest effort – with an automated process.

Bebo sends an e-mail on your behalf, asking the recipient to register for the service in order to notify the sender of your address, which by definition sounds rather pointless. That is until you realise the snowball effect of its marketing. The good people at Bebo make a simple website with plenty of ads, offer a basic service that people have thus far coped without, and use its members' contacts, whom are given freely, to target with relevant advertising.

You'll have noticed something untoward about the e-mail itself. The subject line is always "Updating my address book", and the message continues in the first person, assuming the identity of the sender, but fails to convey any sense of personality. Consider the tone of this e-mail from Piers Thompson, a guy I've not since high school:

Hi

Can you please enter your contact details in my address book. Click on the link below:

http://www.bebo.com/friends/8873160a734712708b21

After we are connected, in the future, any changes you make in your contact details will be sent to me.

Thanks for your help.

Piers

That's alright Piers. But it seems hardly necessary to synchronise our contact details when we've not spoken for what is approaching four years. I wonder if, when certain we have the correct addresses, we'll be more likely to write. And the same goes for the ex-girlfriends, colleagues, someone I met once in Liverpool and even my sister, whom I see often anyway, who have all BeBo'd me recently. To all of you I say 'no.' I will not join your cult.

Worse still is the service provided by www.sms.ac, who continually bully you into joining their mobile phone community, resorting to guilt by the third attempt:

"This is the third request. Should Ed Batlle give up on having you as a friend in his mobile friends network?"

That was actually a shame. I lost a good friend there.

My 5 'til 9

I am lucky, I realise, to have a career that never quite rears off into the cold shoulder of predictability. The daily commute into the fast lane however is made more comfortable with some on board snacks, as I tend to sandwich my work day with hours of bread and butter and banality, enjoying the reliability of my morning, noon and nightly routine.

In the morning before heading to the office I listen to Radio 1, have a bowl of Choco Hoops and watch one half of Will & Grace (meaning the first 15 minutes – not just Debra Messing). At lunchtime I come back to the flat, make myself a cheese and pickle sandwich and watch Neighbours. It's all very mundane. And then something special happens.

Some time after 5pm I leave the world of work for a galaxy far, far removed from reality, an indoor shopping centre named after Charles Darwin, in which only the fittest survive the January sales. Now, in March, I'm certainly in good company and every weeknight trip for my microwave meal is as pleasant as it is necessary.

Marks & Spencers, I've noticed, is something of a hotbed for attractive, affluent, middle-aged women, and the security guard has noticed it too. He stands by the automatic doors, leering in his mock militaristic outfit of authority, more Village People than city cop, and occasionally radios his colleague – over and out – when the hotbed heat up.

I pass them both and sneer before making my way to the food hall, only accessible by way of the women's underwear section. In a store layout designed by someone who, one can only imagine, is having a laugh, the frozen foods section is just beyond the g-strings and d-cups. Occasionally the thoroughfare is blocked and I make a face, the best I can, of a man buying for his wife. It is always my fear that in that situation a clerk might offer her assistance, in which case my course of action would be to, a) say that I was "only looking," b) ask for something in my size, or c) buy the lingerie and find a wife.

Luckily tonight that didn't happen, and I'm comforted by the thought that it probably never will. And so I picked up my microwave meal, as I always do, and thought to myself that while my 9 'til 5 might never be the same there are some things in life I can always rely on. I headed for the automatic doors and the leering guards, now watching the lingerie section with vigilance, and smiled.

Me, myself and i

There have been grumblings from those bastions of integrity, the Op-Ed columnists of the broadsheets, that, as Andrew Sullivan of The Times writes, "society is dead." We have all, with the aid of those pretty, white things, "retreated into the iWorld." Sullivan is not referring to the attractive WASP community of The O.C. but, with his clever inference of the lower case ‘I’, the Apple iPod – friend of the music lover; enemy, as the article suggests, of the regular human being. Yes, the portable music player, capable of storing 15,000 songs, has usurped the mobile phone, cable television and indeed the pocket watch of yesteryear to become the feared slayer of society.

"What was once an occasional musical diversion became a compulsive obsession," writes Sullivan. "Now I have my iTunes in my iMac for my iPod in my iWorld. It's Narcissus heaven: we've finally put the 'i' into Me." What would happen, you might wander, if we tried to take the 'i' out of me. Well, partial blindness, you might say. But just yesterday I became an accidental guinea pig in one such social experiment, when my iPod, damaged under the heavy foot of drunkenness, slept quiet in its dock, while I, in upper case, went about my day - not a wire from my ears, a hard drive in my pocket or a song in my heart. This is my story. iStory, if you will.

9:02am Walk from my flat to the office without the usual spring in my step. Feels less like a music video than usual. I sense a draught in my inner ears and the discordant music of a town waking up. Am also reminded that traffic lights make noise. This makes me laugh.

9:05am Arrive at the office and immediately say hi to co-worker, Pat, without having to fumble around for the pause button on my iPod. With nothing to do with my hands, and not wanting to grope Pat, I fumble all the same, and comment on how great her new hair looks. I do not start up iTunes and instead turn on the radio. It's the news. An Italian intelligence agent has died under US fire while escorting a freed hostage.

11:15am Leave office for meeting. Overhear what I suspect is a conversation about anal sex. Am tempted at this point to walk the rest of the way with my fingers in my ears. The conversation however recalls the Backstreet Boys' song, 'I Want it That Way', which plays in my head. Ordinarily, I would replace it with something more sophisticated. *Nsync perhaps. Instead, I enjoy the catchy hook and eyebrow raising lyrics. I attempt to raise an eyebrow, but can't, and board the train.

2:15pm Arrive in Leeds. The outward journey was pretty horrific. ('Silent Coach' my arse.) And with no music my mind wanders to food. Time however only allows for the purchase of lunch but not its consumption and so, rushing off to my meeting, I push the snack into my jacket. Its plastic packaging rustles whenever I shake hands and introductions are made all the more uncomfortable with a hummus wrap peering out from my pocket.

3:15pm Stomach rumbles throughout meeting. Someone asks what South Yorkshire will do when EU funding runs out. I think of the David Gray lyric, "what we gonna do/when the money runs out," but can't name the song or recall any other lyrics. I begin to dread the train journey back, and the frustration of being unable to locate the track in my iPod music library. Grrr...

4:45pm Train changes at Manchester Picadilly. With the few minutes that I have I cave and visit the Apple Store. The song is 'Nightblindness' from the album, White Ladder. And the daydeafness, finally, is lifted. I turn on, tune in and cop out. If society is dead, I think to myself, then this is its funeral music. Rest in peace, I say, and turn up the volume. Loud.

My Belated Valentine

I sleep beside the banisters of my stairs, so getting out of the wrong side of bed would result in serious injury, if not death. I was therefore pleased just now to land unscathed, on my feet, and to clear blue skies well before the alarm, as it routinely does, scares the bejesus out of me. Fear, I've decided, is not a good way to start the day, so with the extra few minutes afforded me I replaced that buzzer sound with the sound of birdsong: not so loud, but no less scary.

My attempts to rid fear from my daily routine were soon proven futile however as my sleepy eyes wandered over to my desk calendar, which read, 'Monday, February 14'. Has the week since Valentine's been a loveless dream? No, it turns out. I've just been away on business (see The San Also Rises). After joyfully tearing seven sheets from the calendar my confusion nevertheless continued as I found amongst the morning mail, and exactly a week late, a scented pink envelope postmarked February 12 and a card, distinctly resembling a Valentine, signed, "your SY1 admirer" - SY1 being my post code area and, to confuse matters further, the name of my hairdressers.

The clue in the card leads me either to my foxy, but nevertheless married, hairdresser Rachel, or - let's face it - any one of the 28,000 women in the SY1 catchment area. The walk to work this morning will certainly be interesting. And I'm thinking my hair needs a trim.

The San Also Rises

Hemmingway's The Sun Also Rises, known in this country as Fiesta, was written, or at least I’d like to believe, in Parisian cafés and bars with its author, a voice of a Lost Generation, penning his acute post-wartime observations in a Moleskin Notebook. Similarly, I write this, with handwriting recognition software and an HP PocketPC, in a greasy spoon café at Barrow Railway Station. I'm in the glamorous North West, or at least for the next 37 minutes until my train arrives, on business and spending company money (so sue me – actually, please don't) on breakfast.

It's one of those cafés where if there were music playing rather than regional talk radio it would stop at my entrance. Nevertheless greasy spoons and heads dropped and turned as I walked in, holding a red leather briefcase in one hand and quickly unfastening a white flower brooch from my lapel with the other. During my brief stay in Barrow I'd met one other person of colour, who incidentally had been bottled when out the night before. (And by bottled I don't mean scooped up lovingly and packaged for consumption.)

I felt eyes on my back as I walked to the counter and, holding a Microsoft Publisher produced menu, asked for a Big Breakfast. "American?" The lady asked. "Um...I spent a year in California." I replied, wondering what she meant. "Er no," she sighed. "Do you want Black Pudding with that or sausage?" "Oh right! American then." I laughed. "I assume the sausage is American." Then, realising that I sounded completely stupid, and as though I expected imported sausage, stopped talking, settled the bill and thought twice about asking for a Grande Café Mocha.

Why People Are Calling Me Gay

Burn It: 'My Bloody Valentine'

Although I'm not a religious man I will readily celebrate Christmas and Easter. Valentines, on the other hand, though not technically a religious holiday, typically yields fewer cards and candies and therefore demands less of my attention. Of course, should I be on a date tonight rather than writing this, between a board meeting and sleeping alone, I might be more enthused. Instead - and as part of the estranged Burn It series - I've compiled a playlist for the dateless. We are alone together.

My Bloody Valentine (Total Time: 1:20:21)

1. 'Are You Lonesome Tonight' - Elvis Presley
A qualifying question from the King. If your answer is 'yes' please proceed to song 2.
2. 'Excuse Me While I Break My Own Heart Tonight' - Whiskeytown
Nothing says drunk and alone like the sound of slide guitar and fiddle. Here the Ryan Adams vehicle, Whiskeytown, articulate both states of being in a style both a little bit country, a little bit rock and roll.
3. 'Bye Bye Love' - The Everly Brothers
Only the Everly Brothers can sing the line, "I think I'm gonna di-ie", with one too many syllables and a disposition so sunny to belie the song's doomful lyrics.
4. 'I Don't Love Anyone' - Belle & Sebastian
"Not even Christmas"? Not even Christmas.
5. 'What A Wonderful Thing Love Is' - Al Green
What sounds like a rather odd choice for an anti-Valentines playlist is, on closer inspection, rather inspired. The Reverend Al Green, as he is now known, has that remarkable ability to evoke empathy in even the most callous of listeners. Here however his delivery is so curious in its phrasing that the song's supposed romantic sentiment can be read as ironic. Such a reading is only promoted by Green's troubled love life and the story of his former girlfriend, Mary Woodson, who broke into his Memphis home, October 1974, and poured boiling grits on the singer while he was bathing. She inflicted second-degree burns on his back, stomach and arms, before killing herself with his gun.
6. 'Today Has Been OK' - Emiliana Torrini
Emiliana Torrini is an exquisite concoction of Italian and Icelandic decent, with a voice not unlike Bjork's and a pathos that recalls Nick Drake's Pink Moon. Torrini's boyfriend was killed in the 'honeymoon period' of their relationship; she herself was attacked by a gang of muggers in London. So although her problems might surpass being alone on Valentines, I nevertheless find some affinity tonight with this track.
7. 'Shit, Damn, Motherf*****' - D'Angelo
A day not so okay is recounted in D'Angelo's obsenity riddled tale of infidelity, revelation and ultimate murder, when our hero finds his wife in bed with his best friend. Over a mid-tempo, soulful groove D'Angelo sings, "Why the both of yous bleeding so much?" 'Cause you shot them mate. That's why.
8. 'F*** It, I Don't Want You Back' - Eamon
As if to outdo Mr Angelo, Staten Island vocalist, Eamon, takes his profanity-laced pop to a new level and finds a profitable outlet for his long-suffered Tourette Syndrome. The result is the insanely popular 'F*** It, I Don't Want You Back', its offensive language and misogyny cleverly censored by a series of indecipherable asterisks and silent pauses.
9. 'Cry Me A River' - Justin Timberlake
Not to be confused with the melancholy Arthur Hamilton standard that was a hit for late Jazz singer/actress Julie London in 1955, here is a song utterly devoid of dignity and grace, a melodrama with atmospheric rain, a chiming Greek chorus and a speaker, velvet voiced and vindictive. It's also the most interesting track on the otherwise bland Justified album, but as a tell-tale piece on ex-girlfriend Britney Spears it does little to incite our sympathy. Its accompanying video, in which JT breaks into his ex's house, films himself fooling around with new lady friend and leaves the video playing, does little to help the situation.
10. 'The KKK Took My Baby Away' - The Ramones
A pretty good excuse for being alone on Valentines, I think. (Though actually a story of how Johnny Ramone stole and later married Joey Ramone's girlfriend.)
11. 'Cold Hard B****' - Jet
More mean spirited misogyny from Australia's finest cock-rockers, Jet.
12. 'Hallelujah' - Jeff Buckley
A perfect, though hardly romantic marriage of Leonard Cohen's words and Jeff Buckley's voice, this version of Hallelujah is a masterpiece of bitterness and spite, bubbling at the surface with intimacy and urgency, and saved only from self-destruction by the effortless grace of Buckley's guitar and vocals. "Love," according to Cohen, "is a cold and a broken 'hallelujah'".
13. 'Solitaire' - Jesse Malin
Between Jeff Buckley and Ray LaMontagne, Jesse Malin is in fine company and manages to hold his own in this ode to solitude from his 2002 debut, The Fine Art of Self-Destruction, a record of fight-or-flight mentality with its love-sucker heart worn proudly on its alt-country sleeve. Malin's voice is a raw as his emotions as he sings, "got some cigarettes/I don't need anyone."
14. 'Burn' - Ray LaMontagne
It was indeed late and I'd had a bit to drink when I discovered LaMontagne on a re-run of 'Later with Jools Holland'. By the morning, like some kind of a gay one night stand, his gruff voice and rough beard were fresh in my memory but his name had escaped me. I found him, of all places, in a Virgin Megastore, after asking an assistant for Ray Lasagna. My humming was more helpful and she promptly handed me a copy of his debut album, Trouble, which I can heartily recommend. An obvious choice for this playlist for the lyric, "It's so hard to ignore/All this blood on the floor/'Cause this heart on my sleeve/Won't stop bleeding." And a cracker of a voice.
15. 'Creep (Acoustic)' - Radiohead
A rather brilliant fan video, linked below, does little to contest Thom Yorke's reputation as a bit of a weirdo. Watch a mini Yorke sing his little heart out in a cartoon cross between Stressed Eric and The Office. Video
16. 'Last Night I Dreamt That Somebody Loved Me' - The Smiths
"Just another false alarm." Not one of the more cheery - and I imagine, unreleased - Smiths songs.
17. 'Cheers Darlin'' - Damien Rice
One of the more exciting moments of the largely acoustic, O, which is, I think, at its best when Rice is given the freedom to experiment with scale, sound effect and indeed electricity. "Cheers darlin'," he mumbles over a lazy electric guitar, "here's to you and your...lover man."
18. 'The Rat' - The Walkmen
"Can't you see me?!" shouts front man, Walter Martin. "I'm pounding on your door," which incidentally, is the overall effect of this from New York rockers The Walkmen. It breaks briefly in the middle for the line, "when I used to go out I would know/everyone that I saw/Now I go out alone/If I go out at all," and then repeats its joyful anger until it hammers home.
19. 'Chelsea Hotel' - Leonard Cohen
The Chelsea Hotel, I've decided, is not a nice place to stay. It's spawned several songs of loneliness and insomnia, characterised by these old and new songs from 1974 and 2004 respectively. Here Cohen hands us a snapshot, a Polaroid picture of a moment in time, remembered in detail but shaken dry by denial. "I remember it well/in Chelsea Hotel," he sings. "But that's all/I don't think of you that often."
20. 'Hotel Chelsea Nights' - Ryan Adams
"And I'm tired of living in this hotel," a lovesick Senõr Adams sings, "TV and dirty magazines," which just about sums up my valentines. I'm San Sharma. Thanks for listening.

Time and Company

As a man, working in a predominantly urban environment it was with great surprise that I received my complimentary ticket to this year's WiRE Conference (WiRE standing for Women in Rural Enterprise). Particularly surprised - and I imagine, somewhat annoyed - was my boss, Fay Easton, who had to buy a £50 ticket in order to drive me there.

Once inside the Country Living Magazine sponsored marquee however my surprise turned quickly to delight when I realised that it had been quite some time since I'd shared a tent with 600 women. Eagerly, I found my seat at the very front row before motivational speaker, Abigail Cooke, greeted the crowd with a minimal, "ladies," and my delight, just as quickly, returned to embarrassment. Nevertheless, I was suitably moved by Ms Cooke's speech and left the first session believing that I was indeed "a strong, confident woman."

But the fun really began after lunch, during a 'Lean Marketing' workshop, when the tutor instructed the crowd of women (and me) to remove any unnecessary items from their handbags or purses as an excercise in 'lean living'. As I was without my handbag or purse that day I opened my wallet and pulled out a condom that was quickly approaching its expiration date.

The tutor then walked us through an excercise routine that finished with a "deep breath out" and our arms in somewhat of a twist. She asked the crowd who had finished with their left arm atop their right. I was one of three people to raise my hand. "Right," she said. "You are highly sexed people." And with that the audience laughed, the three with their hands raised went slightly red and I returned the condom to my wallet. I've still got time, I thought. And, looking around, company.

My First Birthday

It occurs to me, as I sit to write tonight's entry, that tomorrow marks the one year anniversary of this here blog. I thought then that I'd use this opportunity to look back at some of its highs and lows, but decided that, like a flashback filled episode of a sitcom, it's really a disappointment for the audience and an excuse for the writers to take the day off. But rest assured readers, I'm not resting.

In fact, as this momentous occasion approaches, I find myself anxious about a decline in quality, an anxiety brought about by the comments of a dear friend. "It's crap San," Pete said. "It’s just not that funny anymore. Where are the funny stories?" The funny stories, it seems, are fairly rampart in the months of July and August when – twice – my sexuality was mistaken (see Is there something gay about me? and De-Gay Me, both popular posts.) "You're best when you're anecdotal." Pete added, although I'd take that to mean that it's funny when bad stuff happens to me.

And so, in an effort to please my readers, and indeed escape the wrath of my friend Pete, I've been making note of those things in my day that are both funny for you and excruciatingly embarrassing for me. Take for example what happened yesterday at work.

My boss had asked me to count the number of invitees for a reception we had been organising. As I reached the last name in the list, Victoria Williams, I remembered that she had called earlier and left a message. "69..." I counted. "And that reminds me, Victoria called." And so the office fell silent. But at least with this little embarrassment it wasn't my sexuality in question.

The Ha Ha Wall

Knock knock.
Who's there?
Michael.
Michael who?
Right. You'll do for the jury.

The Blackest of Sheep

Everybody claims to be the black sheep of their family. Statistically speaking, such claims are most often made during family holidays. But for the blackest of sheep there is no such thing, and no more have I felt my blackness than last week when a chain of events confirmed my position on the outer branches of the family tree.

"We're planning a family holiday!" my sister Uma said, in a barely audible mixture of excitement and poor network reception.
"Oh yeah? Where to?" I said, in an audible yet curious mixture of fascination and fear, remembering the rows and sulks of family holidays past.
"The South of France."
"Cool," I said, assessing the relative pros and cons of location versus company in my mind. "I'll have to call you back later," I looked at my watch. "I've got a date."

During which, incidentally, my mum had phoned and left a message on my machine. "Hi San," it started. "We’re trying to book a family holiday and need to ask you something! Can you call us back?"

And so I did, having decided that being in the South of France might outweigh actually being with the family. But, it turns out, I had misunderstood my mum's message. "We were trying to book the holiday on the Internet," she explained. "But couldn't work out what the security code was that they were asking for. Don't worry though - we worked it out and booked the four tickets."
"Only four?" I asked.
"Yeah," my mum replied. "You don't mind staying behind to look after the dog, do you?"

Emo

Emo is neither a flightless bird nor a Sesame Street inhabitant. It is, as it happens, the vehicle, albeit a shoddy one, for this characteristically overdue post. It is also an alternative music sub-genre that favours raw, unfettered expressions of emotion over melody, craft or any form of subtlety, spawning a gut of guitar anthems for the misunderstood college guy whose love for the girl next dorm goes unrequited. Boo-hoo.

The problem with Emo bands such as Dashboard Confessional is that, unlike the universal disgruntlement of say The Smiths or The Cure, they're so lodged in adolescence that nobody past sophomore year is able to connect with their music.

I mention it because just now I was myself connecting with music, browsing the iTunes online music store and stumbling across Emo in the unlikeliest of places. I was looking for an Audiobook to help with my train journey to London tomorrow and found that by How to Make People Like You in 90 Second or Less is the suggestion that "you might also like Dashboard Confessional". A case of Apple knowing its customers, me thinks.

So, I'll save you the confessional and hope that you like me beyond our first 90 seconds. It's usually in my second or third minute that the appeal really kicks in, and the seldom used nickname, Sharma the Charmer, begins to take effect. Imagine then, if you will, three weeks in my company. For America, land of the free, home of the brave, that dream will soon be a reality, as I venture beyond the window shopping of iTunes to the booking counters of online travel agents. That’s right – I, like Eddie Murphy of the 1988 film of the same name, am coming to America. So lock up your daughters, or indeed your mothers, I’ll be there April 2nd to 23rd.

The Michael Jackson Porn Collection

"You need to write in your blog," she said. "That's what you need to do." And it was those words, from an estranged, and indeed, strange friend over the Atlantic that tonight compels me write. I had called her in the post-Celebrity Big Brother buzz when, after watching such C-list luminaries as Channel 4 racing tipster, John McCririck and former Mrs Rocky, Brigitte Nielson, I felt a sudden need to exercise what was left of my A-grade personality before the Tube sucked away the remainder. Unfortunately, first choice recipient - and one of few friends my own age - was otherwise engaged - and so it is with you, lucky runner-up, that I share my thoughts this evening.

You, dear reader, round off my otherwise 'square of friends', into a perfect circle. My social life, you see, tends to coincide with university holidays when student types - all hair and no money - are back in town for their jollies. December therefore was a particularly busy month. Now, somewhere a fat lady has sung, the window of goodwill between Christmas and New Years has swung shut, and students are back to the all work/no play drudgery of University life. In their absence I prowl the Internet message boards, looking for the human connection suddenly withdrawn from my life.

I never find it. But I did return to a message board that I'd come across in researching an earlier post that quietly exudes a peaceful sense of community amongst its 1000+ members. They're all committed to their cause, passionate about their subject and abide by the simple rules of their community: never say "Wacko Jacko." They are the members of the Michael Jackson Discussion Board and eagerly debate (though admittedly only one side of) the King of Pop's upcoming trial. They've gathered an archive of 500+ and surprisingly balanced articles on the subject and it is a minor detail from a major document that I'd like to share with you.

The Smoking Gun, God knows how they do it, have got their hands on some sealed documents from the case against Michael Jackson. They have, of course, unsealed them and put them online. It turns out that hell-bent District Attorney, Tom Sneddon, so busy with actual cases against actual criminals, had no time to write a new document and instead copied and pasted entire paragraphs from a 1993 case against Jackson that, although settled out of court, is worth noting, two Grand Juries failed to indict.

However, what's new ten years later is the discovery of - shock horror - pornography under Jackson's bed. A couple of items don't count, in my estimation, as porn, though they appear on the police inventory as such. The first, the dubious sounding, "Chop Suey Club" is described in Sneddon's document as containing "photos of nude young boys." While it may sound to the uninitiated like some Asian rough trade volume, the book is actually by famed fashion photographer Bruce Weber and available on Amazon. (Check it out.)

The second, "Poo-Chi," detectives wrote, contained "photographs of female groin area." Officers, they only look like the female groin area! The volume is the, um, inventive work of Mayumi Lake, who photographs underarms and knees to create the illusion that you are looking at a woman's nether region. Very funny, Mr Jackson. Though we didn't expect you to have a sense of humour.

Funnier still and perhaps more unexpected is the actual porn discovered in Jackson's bedroom and the thought with which I'd like to leave you agiggling tonight. Amongst such mainstays as Swank, Club, and Couples was a Director's Cut DVD of the Hustler produced documentary, 'Pimp's Up, Ho's Down.'

And if you're surprised by Jackson's taste, consider the black fedora, the single white glove and the sequined socks and it all begins to make sense. Cha'mone!

Please Replace the Handset and Try Again

I don't like people going through my post, or checking my e-mail. And I'm not too fond of others hearing my answer phone messages either. And so it was with reluctance that I hit the play button last night in my parents' company. They had given me a ride back to my apartment and insisted that I stop its beeping by checking the machine for messages. They then assumed their positions around the phone, and unnecessary as it was, stared at it as it began.

The first was a message from my ex-girlfriend Beth, with whom I still share a close, though not geographically close, friendship. After all, we were together three and something years and, although we see other people (but not actually each other – Beth being in California), like close friends we occasionally say 'I love you.' No big deal. However, all but those three words were inaudible, and if this message were a stick my parents would have had the wrong end. They looked at each other and then back at the machine as it beeped onto the next message.

It was me, leaving a memo for myself and, rather bizarrely, one for the apartment: "See you soon," I said. Then, like the unwelcome encore to my answering machine circus, the final message began before a bewildered crowd, who listened with some bemusement as my friend Pam did her turn as a young and very much alive Marilyn Monroe singing Happy Birthday to a similarly iconic and living President Kennedy. "Happy Birthday Mr President," she sang in her breathy – I’ll say it – sexy voice. "Happy Birthday to yoooooooooou..."
"End of Messages," the machine announced.

And with that my parents shifted their gaze from the answer phone to their son, ten months from his birthday and clearly not the President of anything. Blushing that maroon colour Indian people do, I switched off the machine and said with a shrug, "probably got the wrong number."

Curb Your Enthusiasm

I was surprised to find my parents enjoying the HBO sitcom, Curb Your Enthusiasm. My dad, I think, sees himself as a sort of Larry David figure, bald and broody, albeit without a career in Hollywood, experience in stand up comedy or the hit TV show Seinfeld in his writing credits. When I left the DVD box-set of its second series at my parents place for a couple of days and returned to find it still in its case I asked whether they'd like to watch an episode. "Nah, we've seen it before," my mum said. "No, this is the second series. I haven't seen it yet. Shall I put it on?" "No, that's alright. We saw it yesterday." "What - all of it? Back to back?" "Yep." "In two days?" "Yep." "There are ten episodes here," I said, taken aback by their marathon session. "Well Dad, what did you think of it?" Without turning to face me and with his enthusiasm clearly curbed he said, in all seriousness, "a bit repetitive."

Technical Problems

Though a feature in Fortune Magazine is still a long way off, my recent move to self-employment has brought with it the sort of fiscal benefits not enjoyed by much of my peer group. As a result, it is with surprise that I read my bank statements in black ink and with absolute recklessness that I purchase and surround myself with gadgetry of the highest order. As I sit in my lounge typing this, an iPod plays through the JBL Creature Speaker system, a Marks & Spencer Ready Meal cooks on timer to coincide with the start of The West Wing and a video fireplace loops and crackles on the DVD recorder.

I am even beginning to buy first hand clothes, but in my black pinstripe suit and white iPod cable collar I'm just a crosshair for the countless charity collectors and insurance sellers that stalk shoppers on the High Street. As I appear less and less shabby it becomes more and more difficult to disguise my sudden wealth from their persuasive, guilt driven rhetoric. "You look like a well off guy," they start. "Surely, you could spare £2 a month to help poor, endangered, penguins learn to fly. Your money would go to restoring their confidence and letting them know that we believe they can."

Their spiel sends me into the shelter of a nearby shopping centre, where the soft lighting and soft music makes me feel calm and where I inevitably spend much more than £2 a month on some sort of gadget that promises to make the running of my life a tiny bit easier. The new Chip and Pin system, by which you enter your pin number rather than signing at the checkout, certainly makes such purchases a breeze – and far more secure. Or at least I think so.

I was at a checkout the other day when I overheard a reaction to the new technology that was so utterly English in its manner. "This Chip and Pin's a new thing, isn’t it?" said the lady behind the counter. To which the customer replied, "I know." And then with disdain, "It's ridiculous, isn’t it?"

The San Sharma Show

A post this overdue must, of course, begin with an apology. And an opening sentence that mundane should end with one too. So for both I am sincerely sorry. My life, now that I have one, has undergone a transformation of the nip/tuck kind. I don’t have a new nose unfortunately, but I do have a new apartment, a new 12-month contract and a new sunny outlook on life, a disposition completely at odds with the tone of this blog. Formerly a dumping ground for the malcontent, my blog has fallen silent through a period of, dare I say it, relative contentment – a good patch. Rest assured however, any grievances have been duly noted and you should expect reference to them in the ensuing posts. Without further ado I welcome myself back onto the stage and thank you, the audience, for your patience.

Home Alone

Thrilling Me Softly

When a Dublin quintet opened for Morrissey last year and introduced themselves as "the Trills", a capacity audience at London's Albert Hall paused and asked, "the what?" That summer The Thrills, as they became known, dominated the airwaves with their take on Sixties sunshine pop and now, after a fittingly bleak English summer, release their sophomore effort, the darker, sometimes sinister, Let's Bottle Bohemia. The critics this time around are far less unanimous in their praise and I, feeling more aligned to the New Musical Express than regional newspaper, The Shropshire Star, am inclined to say that I don't like it, it's rubbish and Pete Doherty is God.

However, none of those things are true, at least as far as I know, but my relationship with The Thrills prohibits an objective review. It began a holiday romance and, having simultaneously returned from the West Coast of America, the band and I traded beached tales and sun-drenched stories of our time in California. "Let's go to San Diego," sang front-man Conor Deasy in all the excitement. "That’s where all the kids go!" And it sounded like a good idea. I would work, save up the cash and follow the kids to Southern California.

However, that plan never came into fruition and a year later we meet again, glancing awkwardly across a non-smoking Irish bar, as you do when you recognise an old flame. But what was ablaze before is now but a glimmer of hope in the dull disillusionment that this country generates in its young. With their debut album, So Much for the City, The Thrills and I shared a professed love for the West Coast and, evidently, the tunes of The Byrds and The Beach Boys. But behind those deceptively upbeat melodies was the longing and loss that marks the end of a summer holiday. Its follow-up, Let's Bottle Bohemia, however makes no effort to disguise its gloom, with song titles such as 'Faded Beauty Queens', 'Our Wasted Lives' and 'You Can't Fool Old Friends with Limousines'. Now when we meet it is to moan about how much it sucks to be here.

"Is this what they call 'love'?" Deasy sings in album highlight, 'Saturday Night', a tirade about the Great British nightlife. And tonight, which is actually a Friday, I found myself asking the same question, sitting under the disco lights with my mate, Sukhi, relinquishing conversation to the Top 40 at top volume, and watching what Deasy calls "dry humpin' on dance floors." "Is this what they call 'sex’?" he continues.

With Let's Bottle Bohemia, The Thrills are again remarkably in tune, not just musically (as expected), but somehow, and rather unfortunately, with my current state of mind – once thrilled, now somewhat disenchanted. "Is this what they call 'hate'?" Deasy asks in 'Saturday Night', and in his breathless, once intense, now tired vocals, kills me softly with his song.

Here's hoping the next Thrills album is more upbeat. As much for my sake, as theirs.