Tears stream, down your face when...

..you lose something, you cannot replace.

Gleaning information on the London and then England riots since Saturday has been largely, until today, solely via the internet. On Saturday night the usual quick check of BBC News showed unrest in Tottenham. This though unnerving, didn't seem significant until events on Sunday began to unfold. Yet still, as An Englishman watched events unfold for a second night, it still felt appropriate to write a flippant email to my brother-in-law. Though I wanted to make sure he wasn't effected by the outbursts in the borough where he lives, in my old house, it still seemed alright to click send on,

"Hope everything's OK. Not wanting get too dramatic seeing as I doubt you'd ever consider

a) Hanging out in Walthamstow
b) Looting a Foot Locker
c) Wasting good beer by lobbing it at a policeman.
 

Anyway, hope all's well but if anyone in the pub does offer you a cheap new iphone4, get one for me too, I'll pay you back"

After four days of watching ever worsening scenes unfold and finally, perhaps inevitably, make headline news in the USA, those words feel regrettable, idiotic even. What has happened in the last few days in London really does make tears stream down this face. Watching footage of looters who have poured acid on a wound in England that no one wanted to acknowledge is painful.

Being in the US but with strong ties to London has given an interesting perspective on events, on how they are reported and reflected in the media, comparing experiences of those living in rioting boroughs, the UK media's reporting of events and then that of the US. At each level versions of events become more and more distilled, starting with a street by street detail of what is happening and ending with the simple "Riots break out in London" headline on CNN.  This immediately begs the question, what does anyone really know of events unless they are there, in the thick of it and how does that reality compare with the understanding onlookers from around The World have? To add to that, CNN's coverage was a hotchpotch of the previous twelve to twenty-four hours events thrown together to make a digestible supposedly live report and all but ignored events outside of London.

A barbour assess the damage in Tottenham http://www.dankitwood.com/ from Getty Images

Sometimes though, a picture says it all and the eighty year old barbour, who sifts through the wreckage of his shop in Tottenham, is heartbreaking. As people wrestle with why the riots happened, whether the rioters, more accurately the looters, should be strung up or listened to, this image captures the individual effect of what has to be senseless violence. For who would loot a barbour's shop? The answer has to be only, The Mob.

The Mob is not an individually sentient person, The Mob is not someone to invite over for dinner but an unpredictable drunk party guest who will do anything, turn on anyone, at anytime, for any reason. The last person you'd invite into your home.  

Yet, given the right circumstances,  The Mob could be you or I. I say this with conviction because, the majority of people in The Mob, taken as an individual, would not loot, would not set fire to buildings, would not rampage from shopping centre to shopping centre but, given the right situation,  people will join together and cause unrestrained havoc. Of course there will always be some people in any and every society who will steal, who will use violence, but for The Mob to form, usually law abiding citizens must join. "There but for the grace of God, go I."

Riots could happen anywhere and it seems  they are becoming more frequent. What is shocking for anyone following events in the UK right now is that there is no real cause and no one trait that links those who are rioting. As the courts quickly process those who have already been arrested and the police hunt for more, the culprits are not all black, not all poor, not at all aware of the seriousness of what they have done.

This is a wound that hurts so much because if there is no single rallying cry to unite the looters on the streets, what is their motivation? There is no easy answer. The events cannot be dismissed as poverty, as racial inequality and certainly not as a unified response to the police shooting of Mark Duggan in Tottenham. A tinder box had been set alight, but to compare that with the riots in LA sparked by the police treatment of Rodney King in 1991 would elevate the UK looters to a level of having a cause, of knowingly reacting to an unacceptable act of police brutality.  The insight into the minds of looters in the UK is far more disturbing. "We're fighting against the government", "That guy...yeah Cameron, that's his name, is it?", " We're taking back our taxes". A mismatch of justification without any thought or true incentive.

What really seems to be happening are groups of bored people following the media, in all its forms, and thinking, "I'll have a bit of that". But why? From across the Atlantic it is because there is no aspiration in people's lives, nothing to lose, everything to gain and most of all no sense of consequence. It's all a "bit of laugh". Rather than "have-a-go-hero" we now have, "have-a-go-looter".  Looting solely because it's what everyone else is doing and this is marked by images of people stealing not just Plasma TV sets but Tesco Value rice, while others have enough swag to set up a market stall.

So why do tears run down the face of this Englishman watching footage of events back home? It's because right now there seems no way to heal the wound. If there is no one cause, how is it treated? Like cancer it can spread rapidly and the only treatment we know is radical. Like cancer no one knows how to cure it but only to throw everything at it in the hope it goes away. For once, don't fight fire with fire, but understand what caused the fire in the first place. Who left the matches out for the kids to play with. For that, I think we're all a little responsible.

For those that are worried about the UK's image abroad I can reassure you that the American's don't really care. Yes they look on surprised, but their reaction is"sympathetic" and "shocked" but this does not change their opinion of the Britain. The US media, taking their typical angle, asks whether this could happen in their country. It is only when I tell people that the looters are kids, some as young as ten years old, that jaws drop. Even then though, the reaction is the same as all those I have read on the internet from people back home. It reflects that we, more often than not, share similar views and fears but no answers. 

I wonder what cannot be replaced. Burnt down buildings can be rebuilt. Livelihoods can be put back together, I hope. But what of those on the streets in the last few nights? What of their lives? What happens when someone with no aspirations sinks to even greater depths? Punish the looters? Certainly. Punish the parents? To what end? Take away benefits? Surely that idea is madness and would only worsen the situation.

To end on a positive note, because what has happened is still the actions of a minority albiet disperate group, the social media that helped fuel the riots, has helped to clean it up. Watching with avid interest from across the pond the Twitter campaign #riotcleanup actually worked, creating heartwarming scenes of Londoners taking to the streets with their brooms.

As for Aaron Biber, the barbourshop owner,  the internet is coming to his rescue too KeepAaronCutting.

The Big One, are you ready?

Normally I like to start my posts with  a reference to a song but there didn't seem to be a single tune,  that I could think of,  relevant to the hazards of earthquakes or their aftermaths. Someone better tell Simon Cowell there's a gap in the pop market. In the nick of time, Carole King came to the rescue. Here's hoping that I never do, "feel the Earth, move, under my feet". Take it away Carole...

The Missus and I have just taken delivery of our disaster kit  from Amazon. Having moved to perhaps the most famous earthquake territory in The World, it was decided that a little bit of "justincasedness" would be prudent. I remember watching reports of the last big earthquake to hit San Francisco on "John Craven's Newsround" as a child and being in awe of what I saw.  The image that stuck in my mind then, and does to this day, is that of the collapsed upper deck of the Oakland Bay Bridge.

Unnerving public public service adverts appearing at bus stops near you now

 Known as the "1989 Loma Prieta Earthquake" or the "World Series Earthquake" because it happened during a game between the Oakland Athletics and the San Francisco Giants, it was the first major quake to be broadcast live on US telly. Whoo. Go team.  It measured 6.9 on the Richter Scale, sadly killed sixty three people and left thousands homeless. This was not "The Big One" that is supposedly due any day now. In fact, I believe it's overdue. Oh goody. 

Sadly not a reliable option

Prior to moving here my other mental images of earthquakes were from "Superman The Movie". In a mad dash to put everything right, Superman saves a school full of kids from toppling off the Golden Gate Bridge. This is good work, though sadly not something to be relied upon nor something that can be pre-bought from Amazon. The other image, also from Superman, is of Lois Lane in her car swerving to avoid falling telephone polls, then being swallowed up into the ground as a rift opens up. 

Superman wonders if the car's a write-off

Now, while Superman sadly cannot be relied up to help out in either situation, it is at least in some way reassuring to know that in an earthquake the ground does not open up and swallow anyone, or anything, whole. For those on the Golden Gate Bridge, take solace that it survived 1989 and suspension bridges are designed to move.

What the ground does and did do in 1989, is liquify. In essence the ground shakes so violently that it acts like a liquid. This does not sound good. Worse still, this happens most on loose soil, in say The Marina area of San Francisco, not far from where The Missus and I now live. Fortunately we do not live on loose soil, "The wise man built his house upon rock." As my preparation manual helpfully points out, The Marina area was devastated in 1989. The earthquake kit is becoming an increasingly wise purchase. 

A sizeable delivery

Box within a box, is this earthquake retrofitting?

Once hauled into the flat, it seemed wise to open the package, especially considering there could be an earthquake at any moment, and I'm glad we did. In the middle of disaster getting into Amazon's serious approach to packing could have meant the difference between life and death. Once inside, the swag kept on coming and coming.

The deluxe emergency kit

Now I feel the need to detail everything therein as it appeared on opening the box.

13 x sachets of purified drinking water (yet this kit is designed for two people)
2 x rock hard packs of emergency food rations each containing six bricks (of something allegedly edible)
1 x mini first aid kit (fair enough, what can't be fixed with a plaster?)
1 x emergency blanket (I suppose the thinking is that if you need two you're beyond the help of the kit)
1 x 5in1 survival whistle - compass, whistle, flint, signal mirror, waterproof match container (I think this one really is over selling itself)
1 x multi purpose knife (can't argue with that)
2 x face masks (for that SARS chic look)
Some rope
1 x pair of work gloves (though working/gardening would be far from my mind)
1 x rubber flashlight
2 x ponchos
1 x emergency camping tent (no poles so God knows how that stays up)
1 x AM/FM radio
2 x glow sticks (now we're talking)
1 x bottle of poppers (really water purification tablets but I'm going on first impressions here)
1 x rucksack for all the incredibly heavy swag.

Now does it not strike you, for it did me, that this list is not dissimilar to your basic festival needs? So in the event of an earthquake, I am at least looking forward to a good old singalong in our pre-decided emergency rendezvous point. I just hope everyone knows the words to Coldplay's "Yellow".  If only there were such a thing as wind-up internet, we could always download the words. I may have to pitch that idea to Steve Jobs.

Of course I am being facetious and preparation really is key to increasing our chances of survival. The kit is stowed in a safe yet easily accessible place. Where it's not too much effort the Seven Steps to Earthquake Safety have been adhered to. I've drawn the line at fixing pictures securely to walls, but chosen instead to precariously hang things where they won't fall on our heads. Seemed easier. The one thing left to do, and this does seem a little extreme bearing in mind we're in a flat, is secure a torch and spare pair of shoes in a bag, under the bed.  I do now wish I hadn't thrown away my Glastonbury wellies.

Wellie Graveyard Glastonbury 2011

Earthquakes really are no laughing matter but these things should be approached with a little sense of humour when making recovery plans. I had always wondered as  child what kind of a fool would live on a known major fault line, turns out, it's me. Having left the Motherland, where there's nothing that tries to bite you, or has massive claws capable of swiping off your head, nor is there anything that can inject lethal venom into your veins,  here I am in a place that not only has all that, but the very ground you stand on could go ape any minute. Well it all adds a bit of spice, doesn't it?

Back for the Fourth of July, I was back for the fourth of July.

Yet another massive gap since I've posted, it really is time to get down to some regular musings from Fog City, so here's my first impression on the  Fourth of July celebrations.

Firstly this is the one time when the Americans remember to use "of" when referring to a date. The day before is July third the day after is  July fifth yet for some unknown and ear soothing reason Independence Day is properly honoured with the sonorous Fourth "OF" July. For that reason alone it was almost worth missing out on Prince's seemingly legendary set at the Hop Farm in Kent, England.  Not since Madonna played Mote Park in Maidstone has such an international music icon appeared near where I grew up and, by all accounts, Prince was actually good. Note to all festival performers, and I have said this many times, festivals are not the time to experiment with new tracks but to wheel out the hits.

But I digress, missing Prince didn't matter too much, The Missus and I really were keen to experience Independence Day, one of America's biggest holidays, so we headed back from the UK to see just what pomp and circumstance is like Stateside.

All American margaritas

Now, for those of you who are not up on US history, by this I mean me and Sarah Palin, the day commemorates that fateful time when Will Smith, helped by a much maligned scientist Jeff Goldblum finally managed to infiltrate the alien mothership, bringing down the extra terrestrial computer network thus allowing President Bill Pullman and his much depleted armies to attack those pesky spaceships hovering over LA and all America's other major cities. Not only that, but they passed on the information globally, including radioing Giles and Charles, two RAF pilots (I kid you not) so that the aliens could finally be defeated and the Earth freed. The ultimate goal shouted President Bill Pullman, 

"The Fourth of July will no longer be known as an American holiday, but as the day the world declared in one voice: "We will not go quietly into the night!" We will not vanish without a fight! We're going to live on! We're going to survive! Today we celebrate our Independence Day!" 

Okay then, Independence Day celebrates the adoption of the Declaration of Independence, the signing of the charter by notable historical figures such as George Washington, Thomas Jefferson, Benjamin Franklin, John Adams and other people who's names can all be found on Wikipedia. The charter declared the thirteen states or as they were then called colonies, independent from Great Britain.

Well now, there's a situation to find yourself in. A staunchly proud Brit leaving The Green and Pleasant Land so as to join ex-colonials in celebrating their independence from said G&P land. In the spirit of good humour  and light hearted teasing, I was so very tempted to re-decorate the flat here in SF as it was for the wedding of Prince William and Princess Catherine. However, seeing as I have not yet gotten to grips with just how strong patriotism runs in the US, and I certainly wouldn't want my joke to be misunderstood, I agreed with The Missus that we should simply approach the day as a good old knees-up, albeit an American one. I've been brought up well enough to know never to insult my hosts and I certainly wouldn't want to be doorstepped by members of the US Black Squadron shouting the Taffin quote "Well may be you shouldn't be living here" now made infamous by Adam and Joe. Although that would almost have been worth it.

Willy and Katah look down on what could have been their kingdom

Perhaps a little inappropriate for the occasion

As the UK does not have an official national day, the closest are the saint days for each country of the Union, St George (England), St David (Wales) and St Andrew (Scotland). Guy Fawkes Night is the best comparison I can make with the Fourth "OF" July, and that is based mainly on the common denominator of fireworks.  I have deliberately omitted Northern Island from my list because St Patrick doesn't fit into my reasoning and, like many others, Northern Island for me, is an extremely confusing member of The Union, to say the least.

Fireworks seem to be the main focus of the celebrations though, as the day progressed I began to realise that it is also about getting together with friends and family, barbeques and beer. So our day was split in two, seeing as we were fresh off the plane, and though we did have an invite to a family BBQ, The Missus and I knew we'd be poor company. We opted instead to relax then head down to the dreaded tourist trap of Fisherman's Wharf to experience outdoor entertainment, go home, eat food then return to watch the fireworks in The Bay.

People start to claim their spots, six hours ahead of time

I had high hopes for the day's events. I really wanted seas of Stars and Stripes flapping from most houses as we walked down to Wharf, followed by lots of people, ideally dressed head to toe in material made out of that Star Spangled Banner yet wave. Disappointingly I counted only three flags on the walk down, in fact I saw more on Memorial Day than on the US' National Day.

Down by The Bay, where people had started to gather, there were already some tents erected, like a miniature Glastonbury, even a gazebo or two, but again, no flags. The odd person sported red, white and blue deely boppers, but the lack of patriotism surprised and actually disappointed me. This was compensated though by the amazingly cool, super cute kid drummer who played what seemed like all day. Aren't there laws against that kind of thing? No matter, he won over everyone that passed from tourist to local to hobo. All were transfixed and I wished I was as cool. 

I had expected a party reminiscent of a free ticketed, Daily Mail Last Night of the Proms extravaganza, but instead found a more gentle picnic in the park. This was disappointing not least because one thing an Englishman loves is to pour scorn on US patriotism from atop an inappropriately high Mount Smug.

The afternoon rather selfishly denied all opportunity of mickey taking. In fact, it was impossible to even raise a sneer. I began to worry for my sanity and very Englishness, of which I am so proud. For what is the point of being English if you cannot tut and mutter about the uncouthness of the colonials? So, after a wander and a very poor cocktail, Fisherman's Wharf really is tourist trap that no SF local would consider frequenting apart from on the Fourth of July, The Missus and I headed home to rest  and to prep up our illicit booze for the evening.

Ain't notin' in that brown bag but OJ, officer

The evening lived closer to expectations. Having picked ourselves a good spot in Aquatic Park, again our recent Glastonbury skills stood us in good stead, we awaited fireworks, beer ingeniously concealed in a brown paper bag.  Considering the current state of both the local and global economy, it's odd that both in the UK and in the US, authorities are still keen to quite literally burn money and let the tax payer watch their own hard earned cash go up in smoke. This is by no means a bad thing, who needs  a few extra nurses when short lived, pretty explosions are on offer? 

Finally my much needed fix of Americana and patriotism was satiated quite brilliantly with some impressive fireworks, but it was the chosen soundtrack that really hit the mark. Bruce Springsteen's "Born In The USA" was an obvious yet inappropriate choice. When will people realise it was never intended to be a nationalistic anthem? Totally unexpected though was as a song that, judging by the many voices in the crowd who joined in, really struck a chord. Take a moment, if you will, to enjoy the pure Americaness of this masterpiece. 

Desperate need for some in your face American patriotism fulfilled in three wonderfully cringeworthy minutes. Not surprisingly, this track never made it big back in the Mother Country.

The fireworks themselves were largely impressive, though I am sorry to say it San Francisco, Clapham Common's last year for Guy Fawkes were better and, perhaps this is overly critical, if you are going to make smiley faces out of your explosions, make them explode the right way up.  

Though I was left yearning for a party more reminiscent of a Bush Family wedding high on popping candy, I should thank the good people of San Francisco for an entertaining evening and more importantly for not being overtly patriotic, after all this is San Francisco, not the US heartland. Locals here are far too cool for all that flag waving. There's no Daily Mail in this town.

Mad Dogs and Englishmen Go Out In The Desert Sun

The festival season 2011 has arrived and for the first time, being in California, I had the chance to go to Coachella, the festival that kicks off the annual circuit. I'm an enormous lover of festivals after all, what's not to like? Thousands of like minded people in a field somewhere, cut off from the usual grind, walking from stage to stage hoping for a good spot to see favourite acts or discovering new ones. There's also beer, lots of beer.

The Coachella Ferris Wheel

In all honesty, I had some reservations about Coachella since, having done Glastonbury many times and it is my heaven on Earth, I was worried the yanks' effort would not match up. It is not for me to say which is better, though every bone in my English body shouts that Glastonbury. If this is true though, Coachella comes a close second. Both festivals are in beautiful, yet quite different settings. Glastonbury sits in the rolling hills of the south west of England, Coachella an artificially created, heavily irrigated yet stunning oasis in the middle of the desert in Indio, California. I doubt you would ever find WaterAid sponsoring the latter.

Yet Coachella's desert setting gives it a significant edge over Glastonbury, the chances of rain are minuscule and my maiden year saw temperatures sore to 105f which, in real money, is 40.5c. To quote Peter Kay, "I like it warm but I don't like it that warm".  This being America, it is not obligatory to stay onsite in a tent. Given the heat this is an amazing relief. The forty minute trek back to the tent at Glasto, substituted with a forty minute disco bus ride back to our luxury condo in Palm Springs. A condo complete with swimming pool, BBQ with a built in fridge, ensuite bedrooms with multi-headed rain shower and 50" jumbotron TVs, multi-room surround sound and praise be, air-conditioning. I'm a festival purist so these luxuries seemed frivolous and not in keeping with what's needed to make a good festival.  I changed my mind within thirty seconds of walking through the door. In fact by day three of the festival I was championing the idea of sacking off the festival completely and spending the day by the pool. Fortunately I was out voted  and the final day ended up being the best.

A refreshing dip

Strangely for a festival alcohol can only be consumed within the designated beer gardens. This and Coachella's many rules helpfully spelt out in the leaflets, display pack, 2012 calendar and other surplus guff sent out with the entry wristbands, meant that again I was concerned for just how festivally this festival could be. It sounded more like a school sports day with music. In reality not drinking in the desert Sun is actually a good idea and I soon overcame my grumpiness on the matter for each day I was able to get up to start the whole process again relatively hangover free and, most importantly, 100% devoid of heatstroke. In fact not one member of New New Hackney, the now customary festival group's name, had even a light tinge of sunburn. Given the searing heat and Mars like scorching Sun, the diligence in applying sunscreen by all has to be applauded and my sincere thanks goes out to the ladies of the group who made it all happen.

 Coachella Stage at 12pm day 1

As with all festivals it takes the first day to find a stride and settle in but by the time The Chemical Brothers took to the Coachella Stage for the visually stunning and bounce inducing headline slot everyone had found their pace. Unlike Glastonbury which is held on a working dairy farm, Coachella is on the flat, Empire Polo Fields.  The Pyramid Stage at Glastonbury is built in a natural bowl so I had mounting concerns over how good a view could be had. I am always the person who ends up standing behind the tallest person with the largest, fattest head in the crowd and anyone who's been to any gig will know just how much of a buzz kill a lunar noggin can be. I did have to contend with some massive heeeds and even one pillock inconsiderately wearing an Indian headdress, but in general, I managed to have unobstructed views of all the acts I wanted to see. The sound on each stage at Coachella is so good that even at the back, every beat, ever soaring note, every warble and every unplanned screech is crystal clear.

Mumford and Sons Day 2

For most acts the back did just fine and allowed plenty of room for dancing like a fitting cobra. For Mumford and Sons though, the back would not do. There was a real buzz over Dave Mumford, Steve Mumford, Geoff Mumford and Wayne Mumford or whatever their real names are. By far the most popular act, at least in my hoe-downing-worshipping mind, it seemed like everyone planned to make their way over for a do si do and a singalong. After all, that's what festivals are all about.

You can keep your moody plinky-plonk synth and wailing "I've had a bad day" "look how obscure I am" lyrics. Give me catchy hooks,  musical crescendos and a decent brass section any day. In fact add a banjo, waistcoasts and take of your shoes then you have Mumford and Sons. Having been quite literally in awe of the band last year and their legendary Glasto appearance they were not to be missed. They did not disappoint. In fact they were even forgiven the cardinal sin of playing *gasp* new material. For those that don't know, festivals are not the place to experiment with new sounds.  It took nearly a year to be able to watch or listen to Mumford and Sons without a tear in my eye, so great was their Glasto set in 2010 and I think, Coachella has put my right back to the beginning. By this rate I shall need therapy to get over my smiling whimsy.

Many good times were had in the Sahara Tent, the focus of dance music, not least because the tent had by far the best sound I have ever heard at a festival. Eavis take note. The tent also had spectacular lighting rigs hanging from the entire ceiling, mesmerising the crowd and really came into their own for Eric Morillo and the fantastically cheesy but so much fun Axwell and Steve Angello. Should anyone need lessons on how to throw your heart in the air, let me know. 

 

One day like this a year will see me right

Right next door to the Sahara, the Mojave. Do you see a naming convention here? In the Mojave, Elbow played a forty minute set that brought more tears to proud Englishman's eyes. Guy Garvey charmed the crowd with his typically English self-deprecation and jovial reference to the sound bleeding from the Sahara, "Can someone ask them to turn it down a bit please?" he teased. "One  Day Like This" was of course the closing song everyone was waiting for. It earned me another shout out from Guy, as I furiously waved my five foot Union Jack and, with every effort, tried to drown out the dance tent with my singing. Flags and festivals, the perfect match despite yet another Coachella rule banning their use.

Sunset as Coachella 2011 reaches its end

Leaving the condo on the final day was tough but proved well worth the effort. After some time spent in the beer garden warming up while cooling down we made it over to see Duran Duran play the equivalent of Glasto's "Oldies Slot".  It's more than a little disconcerting to be able to remember when the oldies originally charted.

I'd spent some months unsubtly persuading people DD would be worth watching and they were more than worth the effort. After an afternoon of beer, some 80s classics everyone knew the words to was perfect. Even the unwatchably annoying Simon Le Bon was on squirm inducing top form and being in the desert, "Rio...dancing in the sand" hit the spot more than anything else could have done. All the classics were wheeled out and being an English band, it was another chance for me to get out the flag and watch it flutter pleasingly in the evening breeze. Sadly it did have a habit of slapping some of my friends in the face from time to time and for that, I apologise.

The only unnerving moment in their set, an oddly considered cover of Lady Gaga's "Poker Face". Mr Le Bon, I am still unsure whether this was what you consider cool these days, what you think the kids want to hear or whether your tongue was firmly in your cheek, but please know I remain mentally scarred. Still, it got everyone talking and as always the oldies show the young'uns how it's done. Kings Of Leon, take note. Humour and lack of pomposity is much preferred in a performance.

The last live act for me was The Strokes and what can I say? Just superb. I want to be Julian Casablancas. Effortlessly cool, musically brilliant and exuding personality, stage presence and humour. From here, not wanting to ruin my fun I made a hasty exit from Kanye West as he preened himself on a 50ft cherry picker, admiring himself in the giant screens like a self-obsessed budgie and finished off Coachella back in the Sahara, throwing hearts in the air listening to Axwell play Daft Punk, Temper Trap and the song of the festival, "We're gonna saaayyve, the wooorld, toniiiight".

The gang,  New Hackney

As I left Coachella for the last time, I wondered why I like festivals so much. There are the moments that are never to be repeated, the unexpected cover, the crowd singalong, the new tune that captures the mood so perfectly, the image of the crowd, the band,  the lights, all set against beautiful scenery that stay with you forever. Yet most of all, most importantly, festivals are about the people you're with. The times you share together, the smiles on your friends faces and the decadent, soul enriching pleasure taken and shared in enjoying special times. It's about you folks. So I say thank you. Thank you again for making it all so special. Until the next time New Hackney, I raise my hands in the air to you, heart shaped, of course. 

What Ya Drinkin'?

Rum or Whiskey?
Now won'tcha have a
Double with me?
(The Noisettes, Never Forget You)

Last week saw my first foray into San Francisco society whereby The Missus was accorded an invitation to a cocktail party to celebrate, moreover promote, an upcoming Junior League fashion show. For those that do not know, Junior League is a women only charity organisation that raises money for, and helps to improve the lives of, disadvantaged people in the local area. Thanks to Wikipedia I now know that it is not only in the US but also Canada, Mexico and the UK. For those back home, think W.I. but with less of an emphasis on jam and vegetable competitions. According to one hopeful Junior League applicant one of our party met, the Junior League is all about, "...helping really really poor kids and cool stuff like that". Well there you are then.

The invite with more than a nod to Pan Am

For obvious reasons I have no knowledge of either the inner nor the outer workings of the W.I. It may well be cocktail parties are also their thing. Perhaps there has been a reality TV show rebranding programme that I have missed. "W.I. Raw" presented by a funky young media savvy type (Alexa Cheung or Flo from Florence and the Machine may be) who strip away all the stereotypical images to relaunch a new, stuffy free, chintzless WOAHman's Insitute for the internet generation. Perhaps.

The party

The Junior League do know how to pull in the punters. The target demographic being what would seem rather wealthy and well dressed, by well I mean expensively, dressed women from San Francisco society circles. To entice the well healed, a surprisingly fun local band called Pop Rocks played rocked up 80s classics, all with tongue so firmly in cheek there was a risk of it coming right through to cause a nasty wound no one wanted to see. Not only this, but  a wine raffle with a guaranteed win (my kind of raffle) and the chance to win a $1,600 diamond necklace. The latter prize I would, throughout the night, repeatedly joke to anyone unfortunate enough to have to listen, "...would look great on me". Sadly this was another of my gags failing to produce hoots of laughter but instead simply bemused, confused smiles. Smiles that almost seem to implore help from The Missus. I need to work on my American humour.

Now, I have never been to a cocktail party before. In my mind they have always been a feminine focused type of evening entertainment. Not that I have any problem with that. I have never made a  conscious effort to avoid such parties, they've just never come up. However, I took the opportunity to launch my first social media based experiment. A quick post of Facebook that read, 

"Need to know a) dress code for a man at a reasonably formal cocktail party and b) acceptable man drink for such an occasion considering Old Fashioned has been done to death and I am not Don Draper"

and I was ready with a list of cocktails to try and a mission to try as many of them as I could. I do love a mission. So I arrived list in hand and styled by my friends. I really am embracing social media. 

Rockin'

Not wanting to sound too vain, but I did enjoy experimenting with my friend-designed outfits and now, a few days after the event, I am disappointed I did not think to wear my Pan Am t-shirt which would have fit in perfectly with the aviation theme. My other regret, not wearing mismatching socks. If they could have been fluorescent, even better.  This is a look I shall cultivate later, Cocktail Party, Service Pack 2 if you will.

Luckily I took the advice of wearing a suit to fit in, at least in small part, with the society attendees. Yet, this was the first time I'd worn my suit since, I think, one of my anger inducing Paris work trips  from my former life. I know this to be the case because my inside pocket was still weighed down with three company issue pens and a Eurostar ticket. To soften the suit blow, I accessorised (for I believe that is the term) with the jazzy socks and trainers you see in the photo above. I tried, as best as I could, to rock the Doctor Who-chique look.

Just call me Matt Tennant-Baker

The most popular cocktail suggestion was a Whiskey Sour and I am ashamed to admit, I'd never tried this before. This was the first served and though tasty, it did seem to be layered with toilet juice of the frothy urinal kind. A little off putting but I am always willing to push on through.

Whiskey Sour (on the froth)

Despite the unnerving top layer, this was a hit and The Missus opted for this once the sparkling wine had run out. I moved onto the second on the list, a reassuring gin and tonic but with a dash of bitters. The G&T had to be done. I am, after all English. Middle class at that. The bitters however was whatever unit of measurement is less than  a dash, a piddle?

Tanqueray & tonic with bitters

This is two drinks in and like most other countries but not like home, the US is not shy when serving spirits. Things are starting to get hazy. Again, having not eaten, alcohol was rapidly entering my blood stream but no matter, those Junior League gals were on hand to serve canapes. I did enjoy the crab meat on an endive leaf but please America, please all women, please my lovely wife, no more bloody cupcakes.

Blurry cupcakes to match my degenerating vision and snack disappointment

No matter, onto the next drink. A bourbon and ginger. By this time I am starting to get a measure of each of my friends and their tastes. This will be remembered for future entertaining. Not being a fan of whiskey type drinks,  this was a little too whiskey tasting for my tastes. Yet again though, my British resolve and stiff upper lip meant I drank that and pushed on through to a Manhatten. Oh, more whiskey, that was a mistake.

 

Only the bourbon is mine

Enjoying some nourishment with my Manhatten

My last drink, before the bar closed because, of course like any true Brit, I was there to the very end, a trusty, comforting and well deserved beer. A cop out you may say, but rather enjoyable.

Sweet amber nectar

All in all, cocktail parties are a fine thing and the Junior League put on a great evening. I would definitely enjoy another and would do even more (practical) research before attending my next. Sadly this was a muddling free zone and so mojitos and caipirinhas will have to be left for the next indulgence. My heart however still lies with a cozy pub and a pint of Landlords, but that's just me.

The gang and our snack based table devastation

It's Not Always A Pleasure To Help You

I am now back in San Francisco after a return to old Blighty, finishing off unfinished business. The American move is more real than ever since there is no longer the comfort of a return to sanity, pleasingly warm beer and my wonderful friends, looming comfortably on the horizon. Now, as far as the metaphorical eye can see, lie the vast open plains of Getting Settled in America.

My return to the Mother Country did give me time to reflect on initial life here and gauge just how American I had become in a mere six weeks. Let me reassure all that know me now though, that I do not intend to naturalise to the American way. There will be no assimilation, no upspeak, no "rad" no flagrant use of the word "awesome" and I hope no significant gain in weight. Though the latter is not a promise, food here is very, very hard to resist, especially when "getting to know people" can always be relied upon as a firm excuse to eat out. 

Yet, despite being proud to have been often labeled "the most British person" I  had only just arrived into London from Heathrow when I found myself queuing in a pizza restaurant, fantastically and vocally irritated by the staff's deliberate attempts at ignoring waiting customers.  While my tolerant companion apologetically excused the busy restaurant's poor service, I quizzed others in the queue  to  find out if they had also be stoically ignored too. I am ashamed to admit that in less than four hours from landing in the UK I had used the cringeworthy phrase, "This would never happen in America" and I fear this may not have been the only time. Oh how the worm, only gently tickled in the middle, turns. Send me to The Tower now, your majesty, I am a traitor. 

Great Britain, the UK, England is renowned for poor customer service and like all stereotypes there lies an element of truth but it is by no means a trait isolated to the British Isles. Take for example the French, more specifically the Parisians. So shocked are the Japanese at the near genocidal rudeness of the not so chic Gauls, the recognised psychological disorder "Paris Syndrome" means that unfortunate tourists have to be repatriated by their embassy for fear of lasting damage. There really is a specific department in the Japanese Embassy established to save these poor souls and return them home where service is not delivered on the sharp end of a machete.

Getting back to GB, I flew on United Airlines, the sweet luxurious happiness of BA First Class no longer an option for me.  Now before I compare the two let me offer an apology because my First Class travel post had a small twist of truth. A white lie so white it was translucent yet, for one sharp superb individual, yes Lucy I mean you, this bending of truth should have never been. So, never again will this blog bend a timeline or mislead in anyway. My crime was simply to blur one trip with another to save on time but, having been pulled up by my friend on this, I resolve never to repeat the offence.

70's service epitomised by Basil Fawlty, lovingly recreated by American Airlines

United has an interesting offering sitting somewhere between budget carrier and standard airline. If there is an opportunity to charge, in true Michael O'Leary style, United for the most part, will. Want a glass of wine on your transatlantic flight, that'll be $7. Want a meal resembling any recognisable food substance, pre-book online please and pay $20. The best part though, the marketing blurb actually says "Want some personal space...?" then goes onto explaining how paying an extra $100 per trip will offer legroom approaching a standard acceptable to Frodo and his mates.

Having experienced so much luxury on BA it should not be hard to understand how this return to the back of the plane and,  let's be honest, the only place I really belong or can at least afford, caused considerable concern. Yet though the experience was of course considerably less comfortable than my previous flights to and from San Francisco,  it was not as bad as I feared.

United bases many of its crews in its destination cities so my UK to US flights have always had a British crew who have been friendly and, though not so eager to please as BA, certainly in no way as disdainful of their customers as American Airlines staff.  United seemed to me a logical comparison between the UK's stereotypical service and the the US.

Of course, I am not comparing like for like here but my fear of no free booze has not yet been realised for on every United flight, I have been offered at least one complimentary drink. Whether this is down to my excessive British politeness, good looks or most likely the crews' unwillingness to fetch a credit card machine I couldn't say, but at least one free G&T has been offered on everyone one of the four United international flights I've taken. That's enough to retain my business. Yes, I am cheap.

You can bet the first swine on the plane to fully recline his seat will be sitting in front of me

A full flight in cramped steerage is never a pleasant experience yet weirdly I am starting to think that getting drunk is not the best way to cope. The airlines' tightfisted reticence may be going almost as far to improve my liver's well being as it does their balance sheets. Notice I used the word "steerage" expect it to come back into the common vernacular soon. The divide between service in first versus standard mimics the ever growing divide between classes in society and the difference in experience gets ever more comparable to the levels of travel offered on Titanic back in the Gilded Age.  One marked difference between now and 1912 though, should we end up unexpectedly dumped in the waters of the Atlantic, no one's getting home, regardless of how much has been paid. There'd be no weasingly out of the right thing to do for Micheal O'Leary, the Bruce Ismay of our time.

So I have decided, there's rubbish service everywhere. In the US good service is expected so that bad service stings, whereas in the UK, poor service is at the back of everyone's mind so when it's good it soothes and shines.

Perhaps I'll see you on a United flight one day. I'll be the man making little fuss but working hard on scoring another free gin. I remain, forever English yet what an Englishman really wants from customer service is a greeting, eye contact and a sincere smile.

They veer here, they veer there, Californian's veer everywhere

Everyone is the best driver and everyone is convinced that every other driver on the road is, at best, a plonker. At worst, and in the heat of a nasty cut-up at the lights manoeuvre, the offending driver (most likely in a BMW) is a ******* *******. It is again reassuring to note that some things are constant, and the utter disregard and arrogance of every BMW driver, is perfectly mirrored out here in California. 

Daily traffic stretches for miles to cross the Bay Bridge

I've often been told that the traffic in San Francisco is "terrible" and our choice of area to live in, being a couple of miles from the motorway (freeway) for The Missus' commute to work, was  an ill advised. choice. Let me say now that traffic here in not a patch on London. Granted it is heavy, every American loves their car, but it flows. While the Californians do drive like they're on the dodgems, the technique is significantly less aggressive than the average Londoner. The dodgems is a good analogy. Perhaps it's the fact that most American cars are built and drive like a four year old's toy, encourages American's to drive like they're on a lollipop sugar rush. 

Cheerfully prepared for the long and not so winding road

So, with concerns over traffic and the widespread inability to drive like a sane adult, I was ready with only mild trepidation to set off on my first "ROAD TRIP". I can't say that without thinking of a thousand teen movies. "ROAD TRIP" shrieks around my head, much the same way as "SPRING BREAK" does. The Missus had a So Cal (I must resist the lingo) business trip that took her away from home for three days and, being at a loose end, it seemed a good idea to pop down to meet her on the LA leg. Well, not LA, Pasadena which, it is now apparent, is some distance from the bright lights and glamour of Hollywood.

On Google Maps the drive doesn't look so bad, the distance being anything from two to four inches, depending on how much I zoomed in or out while checking the route online.  Americans please note it is a "root" not a "rowt". Whilst checking all relevant statistics not even the 7hr 30 minute drive time deterred me. I'd shave a significant chunk from that, or so I thought. 

Just keep going south

Fortunately I had prepared for the drive, Ipod loaded with several Desert Island Discs podcasts not to mention The Archers and anything else I could grab from The Beeb. I also  pledged to count as many Californian Veers as I could.

The Californian Veer is  a driving technique that I had noted within a week of being here, but the name has been given by a good friend of mine who lives on the East Coast (thank you Christian). It goes hand in hand with bumper car style driving and is every Californian's fantastic ability to move from the outside of a motorway (freeway) and cut, across five lanes of fast moving, or indeed slow moving (heavy) traffic, normally to get to an exit. This may come from a driver's lack of focus in noticing that the required junction is not just fast approaching but is in fact, RIGHT THERE. It may also come from a cheeky attempt to stay in the fastest moving lane until the very last minute. Either way it is an insane and unnerving tick that everyone else must always be prepared for. Disappointingly I counted only four on my journey but this must be because the majority of the road was  long, straight and an incredibly boring two lane drive with few exits and little to look at.

Here lies another similarity to England. Take a two lane motorway loaded with a near infinite number of lorries and you will spend the majority of the time stuck behind one lorry driver  after the next overtaking another lorry where the difference in speed between each is, at very best, one mile an hour. Route 5 is the M26 of California, though while the UK road is about twenty miles long, my journey down to LA seemed about the same distance as driving from San Francisco to The Moon. Thank God for Kirsty Young and some very interesting interviews, not least the one with Betty from Coronation Street. Who knew?

The road goes on

The drive to the outskirts of LA was easy, long and uneventful with not a single wrong turn, after all how could there be? My never ending conviction that a quick look at Google Maps is all I need to commit a route to memory did however finally prove ill-founded. The last ten miles took significantly longer than expected and involved a number of u-turns and a lot, I do mean a lot, of swearing.

Yet the whole experience was worth it. The Missus hasn't looked to pleased to see me in a long time and we were able to drop in on the lovely Fred and Laura who have been living in the same house in Pasadena since the 50s and who, I do hope, continue to religiously have their 4pm cocktail by the pool each day. It is said that LA can be a pain to live in, but if you can live like that in your eighties, it can't be that bad.

This would be a downside to LA

Thanks to The Missus' company we also stayed in the Westin Pasadena. A lovely hotel with an enormo-bed, outdoor pool and jacuzzi. Again, LA can't be all bad when you can swim outside in February.

A pool all to myself

The early morning dip meant I was refreshed and ready to race The Missus' plane home. She won. The adventure however was a solid introduction to California driving and for when I have to take a test, though I am still smarting that I have to do so. I can drive a manual car, in London, for crying out loud, yet the authorities want me, ME, to take a test on how to drive a fairground ride. Obama, we shall have words.