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.

What Not to Wear

It ain't the air in your new Nikeees that puts the spring in your step, or the bottled bohemia of your new brown cords, and it sure ain't that trucker cap. But there is something about wearing new clothes that makes you feel a certain...je nes sais pas. (And there is also something about discussing fashion that necessitates un peu de Francais, non?)

There is sadly something about my financial situation too that demands I shop for clothes at thrift stores. But, I am told, buying "second-hand" is the new "full price", and there are plenty of bargains to be found. I stumbled across one yesterday: a classic, three-button, black leather blazer for under £10. Wearing it today has made me feel a little, dare I say - cool.

In fact walking with it provoked the sidewalk flirtage of a really hot girl. And I attribute this wholly to the jacket. I was otherwise having a pretty bad hair day, but nonetheless this young lady, with great style herself, smiled from across the street and waved. A little stunned, I returned the gesture with regrettably uncanny likeness: a girly wave, all five fingers a-fluttering. We both laughed at this but unfortunately deadly traffic kept us apart - isn't that always the way? - and as a big truck passed she was gone. I don't mean dead...the truck didn't hit her, but I thought to myself, two lanes was probably a safe distance. Second-hand clothes can really stink.

As mine hangs in the Febreeze, I'm watching What Not to Wear, a TV show that inspires this entry, and the rather less profound thought that its presenters, Trinny and Susannah, if it were at all possible, could combine to make a very hot woman. That face and those breasts (respectively)...Ooh la la!

Films Dogs Might Enjoy

And that, readers, is the topic of a BBC Radio Shropshire discussion. I urge you all to tune in, if not tonight, whenever you're in the area. In fact, it's worth moving to the area - the late night DJ is really that good. Still not good enough however, to keep my friend, Pete, in town. He's moving back to Uni tomorrow, but not without a few fond memories of a fairly fun summer. Tonight will surely rank up there with some of the least rank evenings of the past few months, as plans for a farewell few in Shrewsbury were shelved in favour of drinks at Telford's newest and I suspect only Italian American bar, Frankie and Benny's.

We arrived feeling a little underdressed but nevertheless utterly surprised at Telford's alarmingly large, pinstriped Italian American community. To our further surprise was the way in which bar staff served glasses on napkins and lit our cigarettes for us. (So impressed was I that I gestured a tip on the counter, which was ultimately retracted and spent on booze. There's a tip for you.)

Nothing could prepare us however - not even the Italian for Beginners tape playing in the bathroom - for the surprisingly moving speech by one half of the Frankie and Benny brand. With the words of leadership and wisdom usually reserved for the Presidents, football coaches and Morgan Freemen of American movies, Frankie or Benny (it was hard to tell which, or if indeed it was either), spoke to the small crowd of kitchen staff, waiters, bar men, managers and us, waiting patiently for our mention in the long list of thank yous.

It never came. The applause signaled the end of the speech (though I half expected an orchestral crescendo) and, drying a glass (I suspect, only for effect), the bar man leaned in. "We actually don't open until Monday," he said. "This is an invitation only event."

Then, with a courtesy not bestowed the Italian American stereotype of cinema, we were politely asked to leave. "You guys just sort of snuck in," he said. It was the easiest break in yet, and a rather painless break out. No violence, no guns, no hitmen: hardly Reservoir Dogs. Now there's a film a dog might enjoy...I'm calling Radio Shropshire. Goodnight.

Whatever happened to Corey Haim?

http://www.google.com/search?hl=en&ie=UTF-8&q=%22corey+haim%22 If you were wondering...

It's great to be here in...Knoxville, Tennessee

Such is the enormous power of the Internet that I can locate my visitors geographically; though - no longer concerned with the surfing habits of my ex-girlfriend - I've neglected that resource somewhat lately. This afternoon however, in a fun filled lunch hour, I got back in the habit, so to speak, and was alarmed at the stats, which, they assure me, don't lie people. They beg the question however, who do I know in Knoxville, Tennessee? And to all my fans in Croatia...who are you?

http://guru.msn.com

Like all cow-respecting, yoga practising, PVC preferring Hindus we have our own guru, a holy man who tours his teachings to families nationwide, who, in return for his wisdom, blessings and soothsaying, house him for up to two weeks. We did so a few summers ago. In fact, he insisted that he sleep in my bed, since - and I may have chuckled when he said this - it was untouched by the impurity of sex. Still, I let him have my bed. After all, he had just chewed part of his dinner and offered it as a sort of Holy Communion, and, after reading my cousin's palm, told him he had the hands of a killer. It was the least I could do.

Having relinquished (most of) his worldly belongings, the guru is actually homeless and survives on the kind donations of temple goers, the support of priests, and the communication link provided by his otherworldly Nokia mobile phone. It was from said device that my mum received the message that the guru is now undertaking a vow of 'silence' and, in his liberal interpretation of the vow, can only be reached by e-mail and instant message. I better go - guru_uk@hotmail.com has just signed in...

The Best a Man Can Get...

(...and pretty good for a woman too.)

I've often wondered where it will all end. When Gillette brought out the Mach 3 in 1999 I thought they'd peaked. "Four blades surely," I thought, "is too much." And yet, Wilkinson Sword, "makers of the finest swords and knives in the world since 1772" (and David to Gillette's Goliath since the Sensor Excel days of '92), this week announce the release of Quattro, "the world's first four blade razor..." As if we're supposed to gasp in amazement...when to be honest, anyone who can count might have seen this coming. Four, after all, follows three. The sword makers turned cosmeticians may see themselves as a cut above the rest now, but in five years time will run into problems when U.N. Special Forces are called in to keep 9-blade razors - weapons of face destruction - off the streets.

Their rivals meanwhile are wise to explore other avenues and, having acquired Duracell International, release the truly awe inspiring - and I did actually gasp when I saw this - battery powered, vibrating triple-blade razor, the M3Power. Although a somewhat unnerving experience to hold three blades against your neck in an unsteady hand, the latest offering from Gillette delivers a remarkably close shave. And when I switch it off I can almost hear the boffs at Wilkinson Sword. "Got it!" they exclaim. "How about...five blades?!"

Burn It: 'Songs in the Key of Death'

"Are you dead?" said the voice at the end of the line. It was very dark, I thought. And I was lying down. "No," I said, a finger on my pulse. "What are you doing?" "I’m calling you from Puerto Rico!" It was Beth, my ex-girlfriend in the Caribbean with current beau Krishna, delicately reminding me at 3:23am that our lives could not be more different. "I'm having pena colada and sangria – on the beach!" "You shouldn't mix your drinks like that, Beth." "Why haven't you e-mailed me with that advice?" she asked. "I thought you were dead."

I am indeed alive and well, fret not loyal readers (or royal leaders). I do apologise for my absence but this is in no way an indication of my demise. Continuing with the theme however I present to you the third in the Burn It series, following 'Songs to Fall Asleep' and 'Wake Up to'. A mix CD on the subject of death would therefore be called 'Songs to Die to', but deeming that a title too bleak I call this compilation 'Songs in the Key of Death'. Enjoy, if you can.

Songs in the Key of Death (Total time – 1:14:08)

1. 'Sheep Go to Heaven' – Cake Chosen as the opener primarily as to avoid interrupting the compilation's otherwise sombre tone. If you don't know it, the refrain is "Sheep go to heaven/Goats go to hell," which is about the most rational lyric in the song. Others include, "I just want to play on my pan pipes..." Don’t we all, Cake lovers? Incidentally, I know a girl whose younger brother sings in the chorus as part of a children's choir. Bit of trivia for you.
2. 'Jenny Was a Friend of Mine' – The Killers A deliciously sinister update of 'Girlfriend in a Coma', in which Morrissey sang, "there were times when I could have murdered her..." Here lead singer Brandon Flowers does just that, and admits it in a police confession that sounds like a cross between Joy Division and the Cure.
3. 'Atlantic City' - Bruce Springsteen "Everything dies baby, that's a fact," sings the Boss. "Maybe everything that dies someday comes back."
4. 'Lullaby' - Emitt Rhodes I saw The Royal Tenenbaums again last night, and was reminded why I love it so much. Not least because of the two for one offer on the Wilson brothers, but the soundtrack too is amazing. I was listening to it this morning and the shifting balance effect of this song made me think my iPod was dying. Reason enough, I think, to include it on this compilation.
5. 'If You Go Before Me' - Terence Trent D'Arby If you can stomach the conceited little poem that precedes the song, in which D'arby, the artist formerly known as wanker sighs, "I’ve been the hermit and the love thief" and uses the word "extemporise", this meditation on life after life is otherwise rather brilliant. It comes from his fourth and daringly titled album, Vibrator, which is more to do with death than sex but nevertheless connects the two on more than one occasion. "One day in the year," he sings in his remarkable son-of-a-preacher-man voice, "a bullet screamed and ripped straight through you." His performance is so believable you might just check yourself for exit wounds.
6. 'Rock N Roll' - Ryan Adams There is a chance that Adams, Ryan (not Bryan), will appear on every compilation I make without fail. And that it is because he is one of the most prolific and consistently good singer-songwriters in my collection. This, from perhaps his weakest effort, a mock-rockumentary of the same name, is not what the title suggests but a simple piano ballad. "I miss my best friend," a girl can be heard sobbing, taped and looped as the track fades to a sombre close.
7. 'The Scientist' - Coldplay A break-up song that's meaning is forever changed by a video in which Chris Martin, as if he didn't look strange already, sings backwards and like the Superman of the first film, reverses the death of his Gwyneth. It nevertheless wins the Free Willy tear jerker award and I defy anybody who has ever been in a relationship to listen Martin's falsetto refrain, "nobody said it was easy..." without a sniffle or goosebump.
8. 'What Will You Say' - Jeff Buckley Contrary to popular belief, April 5th 1994, when Kurt Cobain took his life, was not the day that the music died. Five months later and within a week of each other three classic records were released more complete and realised than anything by Nirvana. Those records were Definitely Maybe by Oasis, The Holy Bible by the Manic Street Preachers and Jeff Buckley's first and only complete album, Grace, which turns ten this month. It is a masterpiece of indisputable beauty, breadth and brashness, torn between themes of love and death, made all the more poignant but never overstated by Buckley's death in May 1997. 'What Will You Say' is taken from a live album, Mystery White Boy, and is a dialogue with the dead, a conversation with his estranged father, renowned folk singer Tim Buckley, whom Jeff never met but never quite escaped comparison. "Father, do you hear me? Do you know me? Do you even care?" he sings. "What will you say when you see my face?"
9. 'Fruit Tree' - Nick Drake Like Buckley, Nick Drake died before his career was fully realised. His records have since sold far more than they ever did in his lifetime, articles have been written, books and films proposed. The attention and respect his music now commands is justified. (Just listen to Five Leaves Left.) But the quest to understand Drake and his music is all the more intensified by his prophetic lyrics and eerie foreshadowing. The words of 'Fruit Tree' have become a reality: "Fame is but a fruit tree/So very unsound/It can never flourish/Till its stalk is in the ground/So men of fame/Can never find a way/Till time has flown/Far from their dying day."
10. 'Speedway' - Counting Crows Long before Counting Crows joined the likes of Phil Collins and Bryan Adams to record songs exclusively for children's animated films, they made some very brilliant very unchildish albums. This from their third, This Desert Life, is not their first to hint at suicide as a topic. The hint comes with the lyric, "I'm thinking about breaking myself" and continues with the line, "I'm thinking 'bout getting out," which is repeated into the song's fade.
11. 'I Know It's Over' - The Smiths Morrissey at his most morbid delivers a sensitive and intelligent song that brings the best out of his band mates - Mike Joyce (drums), Andy Rourke (bass) and Johnny Marr (guitar) - and a performance more expressive and honest than anything he's done before or (possibly) since. The image laden song about the end of a fictitious relationship is brilliantly framed by the lyric, "Oh mother, I can feel the soil falling over my head," and explained by a middle section, in which the singer equates his forthcoming death with a feeling of utter helplessness.
12. 'Exit Music (For a Film)' - Radiohead While on tour with Alanis Morissette in September 1996, Radiohead was sent the last half-hour of Baz Luhrmann's Romeo + Juliet and asked to write a song for the closing credits. Impressed by the clip, Thom Yorke wrote this for the film. His original plans to use lines from the Shakespeare play were (thankfully) scrapped, and he instead took inspiration from the scene in which Claire Danes's Juliet holds a Colt 45 to her head, whilst keeping in his its 1968 film outing. "I saw the Zeffirelli version when I was 13," Yorke explains. "I cried my eyes out, because I couldn't understand why, the morning after they shagged, they didn't just run away. The song is written for two people who should run away before all the bad stuff starts."
13. 'Whatever Happens' - Michael Jackson Michael Jackson's sales, despite his record breaking bad publicity, better reflect the state of the music industry than the quality of his work. He may not shift the units he did in the Eighties (when Thriller became the world's biggest selling album), but for a 'has-been' it is a remarkable feat to outsell new albums by Beyonce and OutKast with a second, hastily compiled greatest hits package (Number Ones), released the day police raid his house with allegations of child sex abuse. His last studio album, Invincible, is sadly overlooked in favour of the tabloid details of those allegations, but on closer inspection reveals a focused, highly polished - if over produced - R&B record. Here is an aging Michael Jackson, facing his mortality, no longer dancing with the dead with the vigour or youth seen in the landmark 'Thriller' video. "Whatever happens," he sings. "Don't let go of my hand."
14. 'Fields of Gold' - Eva Cassidy Alone, it's a remarkably peaceful ballad. As the soundtrack to a Cancer Research television campaign, it's haunting. Sung here by Eva Cassidy, the Washington, D.C. singer who died of cancer in 1996 at the age of 33, it's even more poignant, and an evocative example of the singer's ability to cut straight to the emotional core of her music.
15. 'Hold On' - Spiritualized Even Spiritualized's back-to-basics album, Amazing Grace, has the odd moment of grandiose. Here it sandwiches Jason Pierce's simple chorus: "Hold on baby to those you hold dear/Hang on to the people you love/'cause death cannot part us/If life already has/Hold on to those you hold dear." Listening to this song, as I seldom do, transports me back to a candle-lit apartment bedroom on Rue Bugeaud, where, with Pierce's instruction, I slow danced with an American in France, before life - and my return flight home - indeed parted us.
16. 'Higher Ground' - Stevie Wonder Stevie's fascination with Eastern religion produced something far funkier than Christian Rock could ever manage: "I'm so darn glad he let me try it again/Cause my last time on earth I lived a whole world of sin..." Beat that Christian rockers.
17. 'Sometimes It Snows in April' - Prince Not quite what you'd expect from the funk-lovin', pint-sized Musicologist, 'Sometimes It Snow in April' is as beautiful as anything I've ever heard, a love song for a dead friend that rewards upon careful listening. The one word in the chorus dissonant to the song's melody is "wish", since wishes, perhaps Prince is suggesting, can be incongruous with the lives we are forced to live. "All good things, they say," he sings, "Never last."

Holiday in Wales

Donkey Bonding

"Better donkey bonding," or so the saying goes, "than donkey searching." And if you're unfamiliar with those words of wisdom you obviously don't know Alexandra, Pete's lady friend from Greece where that saying, which she translates for us here, is the equivalent of our "better safe than sorry." In the week that I knew Alexandra there was indeed a degree of bonding, albeit minus the donkey (perhaps Pete), and now that – a week on – she's back in Greece, preparing her place (and attractive girlfriends) for my upcoming visit I’d like to dedicate this post and picture to her.

Pains, Trains and Polyphonic Ringtones

The 8:32 is cancelled. But I'm on time. And with forty minutes to spare (or despair) I retreat to the station's humble waiting room, in which a girl, whom by probability I assume is a hairdresser (I've met three in a week) smokes beneath a no smoking sign and a teenage boy fulfils a stereotype: trucker cap, low rider jeans, skateboard. He's listening to what sounds like The Clash. "It is," he responds, when I ask to confirm.

Our conversation, if you can call it that, is interrupted by the polyphonic ringing of his phone, which plays the theme from Indiana Jones, somewhat ironically. I see this guy five mornings a week and have concluded that unlike the Harrison Ford machine of machismo he is largely a man of inaction. He sleeps on the train and I’ve yet to see him use his skateboard. Still, the thought of him leaping aboard, whip and skateboard in hand, clutching at his trucker cap before the train door closes, passes the time and elicits a silent chuckle. You might call it a smile. It too is interrupted by a polyphonic ringtone. This time mine and a text message from my boss, Em. "Meeting at 10. Will you make it?"
"I think so," is my response. "Unfortunately."

De-Gay Me

Or Is There Something Gay About Me - Part II

It was just the icing on the cake. It was lovely. And for that I must thank Pete's granny, a little old lady in a big old house between the towns of Ironbridge and Shrewsbury, in a place seemingly with no name. Similarly, I straddle the divide between two states, wandering a no man's land somewhere between bubbling hyperactivity and bloated constipation. I've had far too much cake and caffeine today, and Granny Pete's tea party was indeed the final straw, a bridge too far, or – and this is my favourite from thesaurus.com – "the straw that broke the camel's back."

Before the straw got the better of this camel's back my self-esteem also took a severe clobbering. I was walking with some friends tonight when three separate parties in the park threw what can only be described as abuse my way. On all three occasions, rather shockingly, homosexuality and its wrongful assumption formed the core of the abuse. "Are you gay or something?" asked the first passer-by. Before I had the chance to make my choice – and I would have gone for "something", by the way – his friend, also clad in shell suit and baseball cap, chimed in: "He’s über-gay!" It was a surprisingly articulate insult from such a twat. The others were not so eloquent.

It's all sticks and stones though, isn't it? It didn't bother me too much to be called "über-gay" by a bunch of people who, I think it's fair to say since they made a gross assumption of my lifestyle, will assert their heterosexuality by fathering a child before high school is through. (And by that I mean 3:45pm.) What bothers me however is the presumptions people make based on such elementary things as having styled hair, wearing a blazer and holding a briefcase. Are those really the tell-tale signs? Had I been engaged in an act of man love at the time I might have understood the assumption. Tonight however I was clueless. And my friends, one of whom I was meeting for the first time, were a little weirded out.

"We need to work on my image, Pete," I said. "De-gay me or something." "I think you need a girl for that San," he replied. "Ideally."

Moonwalking in the office

Home is where the noise is

Home, I've decided, is not necessarily where the heart is. I left mine in (or near) San Francisco, but that wasn't home. (But then that, I suppose, was its appeal.) Home, on the other hand, is what you can't wait to return to but then – soon enough – can't wait to leave. It's upstairs in this 12 X 12 room, walled in thin plasterboard, surrounded by my sister's appalling taste in music and 25 almost identical new brick houses. It's the writers' block that's kept us apart and, at the same time, the hideous muse now pushing the keys.

Are we programmed to hate our homes to build our own? Is an innate aversion to the home a necessary impetus to procreate? If we all stayed at home we wouldn't reproduce. (Of course, in some southern states of the U.S. they manage both, but we only need look to their President to see why that’s a bad idea.)

In traditional Indian culture, rather unfortunately, the youngest son (in this case, muggins here) is expected to live with his parents indefinitely. That is through teenage rebellion, his roaring twenties and marital life. So, if an evening with the blood relatives seems a bit much at least I’ve something to look forward to.

How to Lose a Girl in 10 Seconds

Appear homosexual I'm metrosexual, I've been told – smart, well-dressed, urbane. It's what your granddad might call "dapper". It's what some call "a bit gay." It's also an issue I’ve already discussed (Is there something Gay about me?). This afternoon my urbanity may have gotten the better of me, as I peered desperately through the gaps in the crowd, trying to see the shoes that would complete her near-perfect outfit: a crisp white blouse, a snug black sweater vest and the sort of pink skirt asking for a breeze and a blush. It was Sex and the City, it was 1954, it was almost French, but it all stood on a pair of shoes. To stare at them is bad. To comment is worse. "I love your shoes," I said. Strike one.

Reject hints I had no sooner finished my declaration of love for her shoes, blinked and they were gone. The train had pulled into the platform and without a word she was on her beautifully housed feet, literally running away to another inconveniently distant carriage. "I’ll see you on the inside", I thought, and boarded the train.

Be weird "You know, you look like somebody off TV," I started, realising that I'd have to finish. "Have you ever seen The O.C.?" I realise now that Sex and the City would have been better - anything on HBO would have been better. Hell, The Sopranos would have done. "Yeah," she said. "Something in common," I thought. "Good." Going with that I went on. "Do you know the character Anna?" She shook her head. It might be a failed compliment, I thought, but there was still room to impress her with my acute knowledge of the show. "She was introduced in episode 105 and dated Seth before he and Summer got together." Strike three. And out.