GlobeStrutting

I love to travel, and it grieves me that the only real way to get started as a travel writer is to travel as much as you can and document your adventures. This is tricky as a would-be writer, because if you’re doing all you can do get into the industry - work experience, internships, further education - you probably can’t afford a constant stream of worldwide jaunts. You save for periods of unpaid work like others save for holidays, and while they’re often great fun and invaluable experience, on grey and drizzly weeks like this that have no place in August, the lack of vitamin D and new sights can really drag you down. This is the first year I can remember that I haven't been abroad, and I have felt it. I live vicariously through travel sections, friends’ tourist photos and travel blogs, visually cruising through New York, Brazil, Vietnam and Australia and mentally jotting down my ‘to go’ list. Those who trot the globe in style constantly inspire me and make me long to extend my travel knowledge further than my own (lovely) continent and the US.

It isn’t all bleak though; I really enjoy reading about someone’s connection with a place, and there are some excellent blogs out there, in particular. A friend recently went to Tokyo and wrote a street-style piece about her trip on her great fashion and pop culture blog. A girl on the same journalism course as me this autumn has a great account of her travels through Vietnam, as well as some fab film and music reviews, and for completely unrealistic travelporn, you can’t beat the luxe offerings of the Mr and Mrs Smith blog. It might sound a bit sad to muse about travel heaven when you have neither the time nor the funds, but one day I will and all this inspiration will be put to good use.

I think a lot of people that know me would laugh at the thought of me roughing it on a shoestring in foreign climes, but isn’t that the point of the Big Travel Experience? I didn’t do it at 18 and don’t regret that; I think I would have been overwhelmed, frizzy and subsequently diva-ish for most of it, not especially making me a better person. But while even a week in the med is unattainable travel heaven in my current lifestyle, it’s nice to think that a few years of hard graft and experience could lead to more of an adventure somewhere. I do think it’s important to do it, even if that means sacrificing a hot shower and fluffy white towels in favour of grubby sleeper trains and greasy locks once in a while… what else are dry shampoo and baby wipes for? Granted, I’m not usually a festival type, but I’d do it for the right destination. I also have a split in the places I’d want to hit with a bit of cash (Tokyo, New York, Cairo) and those I’d be happy jetting off to on a budget (Bangkok, Prague, Budapest).

I think if someone handed me the money right now - where’s that anonymous benefactor when you need them, eh? - I would probably head to Asia, as it’s somewhere that I’ve never been and has always fascinated me. Something like Thailand (travelling 101) – Vietnam (history & culture) – Hong Kong (shopping & skyscrapers) – Tokyo (style & sushi) – and then rounding it off with somewhere beachy and glorious like Bali would be heaven. I’ve never been that desperate to hit Australasia; it does look gorgeous but I’d want a more alien experience, but I can imagine it being perfect for a career gap or family trip later on in life. South Africa is a little daunting but also rich in sights and culture; I think I'd need to go with someone I felt safe with and later in my travel life. Another friend recently went to South America for a few months and has been posting endless stunning photos of Brazil, Bolivia, Peru, Belize and Guatemala amongst others. It helps that she’s as ridiculously photogenic as the scenery itself, but that was definitely my biggest pang of travel envy this year. So that corner of the world is firmly on the list as well. At this rate I’ll have to win the lottery and take a few years off to work through it, but one can and should dream.

Here are the top 10 I’d love to explore:

Vietnam
Japan
Hong Kong
Thailand
Indonesia
Brazil
Cuba
Hawaii
Madagascar
Southern India (Kerala etc)

The heart of the matter

Stephen Fry recently tweeted a link to this letter to a local Vermont newspaper. The Valley News apparently receives regular letters from Vermont's aggressively Christian/conservative residents about the 'homosexual menace' they perceive to be infecting their fine community. Eventually a local mother of a gay man wrote this passionate missive to contradict - and reason with - the prejudiced group. It is very striking (Fry admitted it made him cry) and well written; not necessarily because the writer is superbly educated, gifted or has a better point - although she does - but because it is simply and logically expressed and comes straight from deeply-felt personal experience.

I just thought I'd pass it on as it is a perfect example of how to express your point without resorting to overly emotional or defensive tactics - this is the kind of writing I'd be proud to produce. I know mine isn't flawless (as some readers kindly remind me on a weekly basis) but I'm still learning and developing my opinions, and I hope that in time I can get somewhere near this level of eloquence.

It also put me in mind of this post, and the fact that tolerance does work both ways. I wouldn't want someone to have to hide their sexuality in the workplace (although like religion, I believe your business is your business) so even I learned something important reading it. A good link to pass on to any anti-gay acquaintances you might have, religious or not - sometimes people have to see a human example to make a move towards acceptance.

Girl Power Grammys

I flicked over to the Grammy Awards on Wednesday night and I couldn't stop watching. The award presentations felt like dull delays between each epic performance, and it must be said that the fabulous females of the music industry totally stole the show. Every time I thought I had been wowed by one pop princess, another came out and completely eclipsed them.

Lady Gaga was her usual level of extra-strength crazy, with an explosive hint at her upcoming tour in her performance of Poker Face and Speechless. They've taken the video off of YouTube now, but it was absolutely phenomenal. The girl has boundless energy and can really sing live, not to mention another geometric hit on the costume front. I loved the creepy ringleader guy and the faceless Gaga-esque dancers, and adored the Terence Koh-designed double grand piano, with sinister clawed hands reaching out of it. Mud-covered Elton John seemed like a genuine Gaga fan and let her outshine him as they duetted on a mix of Speechless and Your Song, even changing his lyrics to say 'how wonderful life is while Gaga's in the world.' Amazing.


Beyoncé came out in killer heels, leather dress and heavy eyeliner and blasted out If I Were a Boy in the theatrical style she uses on tour. I would have preferred the hair to be a little bigger than the ironed-flat look she went for, but I loved the ghetto-fabulous gold armour dress and hoop earrings she wore to pick up her (count 'em) SIX awards. She also slipped into her performance a version of You Oughta Know by Alanis Morrissette, a song I have loved since my angry teenage years, and an ingenious choice which was a perfect match for her huge voice. More power to the girls.


Just when I thought my popstar dreams had all come true, out walked Pink. I always forget how much I love Pink's sultry voice, as she's not a such a strong cultural presence as G and B, but her stunning performance of 'Glitter in the Air' was spellbinding. It was the first time that night that I put down all other distractions and just stopped to watch and listen. She twirled from the ceiling on with acrobatic ease and managed to keep her voice smooth and serene while spinning upside down with water cascading over her. If the 2010 Grammys was like the Diva Olympics, Pink definitely stole the gold. Unknown song, daring performance and understated vocals, but utterly beautiful to behold.


The only lame duck of the night was the unbearably bland Taylor Swift, who not only stole four epic awards from competitors like Beyoncé and Gaga, but quacked out irritating 'OhmyGod' speeches and gave a seriously below-par performance of her already forgettable songs. Organisers even had the gall to ask Fleetwood Mac legend Stevie Nicks to sing with her, who looked completely thrown at having to take part in this shoddy karaoke performance of the teen wonder's hits. I'm with Kanye, she must be stopped.*


The Michael Jackson tribute was a little cringey - Earth Song isn't even good when it's him doing it, who thought adding Celine Dion to the mix was the solution?! - and his kids looked horribly uncomfortable, as well as like little sedated zombies who have as much biological connection to him as cat food. Still, RIP and all that. Generally the live stuff was genius (the Dave Matthews band and Green Day with guests were also highlights), Jay-Z and Beyoncé's support of each other warmed my frosty heart and it just reminded me how slick and powerful the US music industry is. With Pixie Lott, JLS and Cheryl Cole topping the nomination list, I'm not holding my breath for the Brits to top it.



*Edit: After writing this, it popped up on Jezebel.com that after poor wittle Taylor got a lot of flack for her 'singing' at the Grammys, the CEO of her record label decided to wade in with this defence:

"This is not American Idol. This is not a competition of getting up and seeing who can sing the highest note... This is about a true artist and writer and communicator. It's not about that technically perfect performance."

To my great amusement, original Idol Kelly Clarkson retaliated on her blog by writing:

"Thank you for that ‘Captain Obvious', because you know what, we not only hit the high notes, you forgot to mention we generally hit the ‘right' notes as well."
She signed the post,
"One of those contestants from American Idol who only made it because of her high notes."

Teehee.

Hate the Mayer, not the game

Just to revisit my review of John Mayer's latest album, there was an excruciating piece on him in Saturday's Times review section. In a profile which openly aims to give some background to the artist as he is so little known (musically) this side of the pond, what the writer was essentially trying to say was much the same as me. He may come across as a tabloidy, god-complexy, celebrity-shagging douche bag, but the guy has made some pretty exceptional music. Unfortunately, the feature involved an interview with Mayer (promoting his UK tour starting this month) and he couldn't have ruined that core message more perfectly if he'd just dumbly stated, 'I'm a twat, I'm a twat, I'm a twat' over and over again. The writer reveals his humble beginnings in blues bars during high school and his attendance of a Boston music college renowned for its jazz. She suggests this album is a little more mainstream...

"I don't pay as much attention to being good as to being liked. I don't know that Battle Studies is the best record I've ever made, but I think it's going to be one of the most-liked records I ever made, and that's all I care about," he says.

Now correct me if I'm wrong, but that just summed up what I said in the review. It's lazy, calculating and plays on his tabloid image. I start to gag a little as I realize that I BOUGHT THIS ALBUM. Trying to salvage the profile, the writer then brings up his brilliant Tweets, quoting a few for effect. But then he starts describing Twitter as a major threat to his human relationships:

"It's questions of, do I want to share my desires with someone else or do I want to sate them myself with my laptop and my Twitter account?"

Actually, it's not a question of that for many people. But we'll take another shot at boosting your UK image. At this point the writer gives up and asks a broad, sympathetic question about how he is portrayed in our tabloids, and the man actually has a rant about her going off subject and how he's sick of everyone's "unbelievable curiosity about what it's like to be me." All in all, total interview suicide. I could have forgiven the self-conscious ramblings, the dismissal of relationships as less real than Twitter, the stunning insincerity of his replies, but his total agreement that this fourth album is nothing more than a tactical bid to attract a mainstream audience just makes him ridiculous.

"This time I just wanted to make a pop record, and I hope there are some people who are annoyed by that... I hope there are people who say "Why wouldn't you come out swinging with the guitar and the grit?" and I'll be like, "Well, why are you humming track five?"

.... yeah. I wasn't humming track five when I first listened, and I'm not now. Try harder next time, Mayer. In a world where many brilliant, honest unknowns are out there singing and playing their guts out with nowhere near his level of financial backing, this admission of laziness is in poor taste. But nice to know my reaction to the album was so accurate.

Mayer: Put down the blonde and pick up a guitar.

Scientology? Non merci

Scientology: Pimp my Church

The French legal system proved today that they have the balls to take on the inexplicably popular institution of Scientology, and I must applaud their government for their healthy mistrust of the organization as its prominence has grown over the last few years. After a thorough investigation, six leading members of the Paris branch were today fined over £500,000 and given suspended sentences after being found guilty of organized fraud, following their harassment of potential members and extortion of money from vulnerable people.

While the 'Church' of Scientology has thrived Stateside (every time I read a reference to its founder as a science FICTION writer, I still snigger at the number of idiots taking it all as gospel), its spread in Europe has been met with a few more reservations - backwards and alien-based ideology aside, the main point where the Sci-bots tend to trip up is their unfortunate tendency to drain the life savings of their members. For the greater good, of course.

Many people in staunchly secular France want to ban Scientology outright, leading to heated discussion on whether such a thing is even possible. Legal representatives today said they could not impose a ban as the organization would continue with or without legal permission and would be harder to monitor - it is already officially considered a sect there, and authorities had been keeping a close eye well before two women sparked this case having complained about being swindled out of between twenty- and fifty-thousand Euros each. Two years ago Gloria Lopez's family accused Paris-based Scientologists of brainwashing and intimidating their mother into spending hundreds of thousands of Euros to support their teachings, leading to the deterioration of her mental health and her eventual suicide in December 2006. Lopez was typical Scientology prey - recently divorced, vulnerable, lonely and looking for direction.

It might be a good thing that celebrity mania has brought Scientology to the attention of the public - while they, unlike Gloria Lopez, have the money to fritter, we can all hear their ramblings for what they are: nonsense. Incredible, bizarre, alien-descending, silent-birthing, tax-dodging nonsense. So why do people jump on the bandwagon? You don't stand to gain much, unless you count sci-fi fairytales, but you do stand to lose money, often in the thousands. The celeb quotient might be a clue; while many ultra-famous actors lose perspective and turn to hard drugs or liquor, some have found the same rush in immersing themselves in an alternative or strict faith (Kabbalah was the milder precursor to Scientology in this way). I think drugs actually might be the lesser of the two evils, as while Ozzy, Amy and Lindsay may spend their golden years slightly muddled but glad they got over the phase, where does it end for Tom Cruise and Will Smith? They will just spend more, preach more and refuse to hug their injured children (yes, really) with no real pressure on them to let go of the madness. At least your average celeb junkie has rehab.

There is a lot of darkness behind the humour when it comes to Scientology. This conviction of organized fraud betrays the business behind the religion - wanting to spread your word is one thing, actively targeting the vulnerable and those with more money than sense is no laughing matter. There is also a sinister level of silencing power and intimidation to their spin department - famous for crushing serious accusations and jovial satire with their endless legal funds, they even scared the ballsy South Park creators into crediting only 'John and Jane Smith' for their Scientology episode. They have since meekly agreed not to re-run it in America and it was never aired in the UK.

This financial blow to the Parisian branch of Scientology may simply make its leaders more careful; I can only hope they slip up enough for some serious regulation to be enforced. I think the decision to let them continue practicing in France is the right one, but there should be more information out there, and more warnings about the debt and psychological pressure suffered by many members. As Nick Griffin's appearance on Question Time last week proves, sometimes giving such people a platform only exposes their motives and the shaky foundations of their beliefs.

Mr and Mrs Smug

I watched Mr & Mrs Smith last night, and it's interesting how the whole Brangelina affair has both boosted it (people are desperate to see where the spark began) and slightly ruined it as a film (there's no getting caught up in the plot - we're looking for every glance, every smile, and every adulterous moment of sexual tension. Well I was.) We get practically every magazine, every month in my office, and a common thought is 'How is that love triangle STILL making covers?' Bearing in mind the Brad-Jen-Angelina situation extends to Ange's weight and mood on set, where the two are living, where Brad's been partying, and whether or not Jen is dating, engaged or moving in with a bevy of Hollywood blokes, there is hardly a week when Look, Grazia and even some of the bigger and glossier mags don't give a nod to the decade's biggest man-steal.

Generally speaking, I am on team 'enough, already' - it really is so four years ago, and you've got to feel bad for Jen for forever being painted as this frail, weeping creature who still sits lovingly sketching charcoal pictures of Brad and sticking pins in a tiny Angelina voodoo doll. But somehow those three faces still sell (Aniston's particularly) and people do keep reading. I had been wondering if the 'story' would go on for the next five years, too - I think people are either waiting for a triumphant Jen marriage, or a horrible karmic split for Brange - but I think, after last night, I know why we just can't get them off of our pages. Films are often successful because they offer us our deepest fantasy or worst nightmare, that's what gets the audience the most. And this has bucketfuls of both - who wouldn't want to be a secret assassin? Who wouldn't want to come home to Brad, a chilled Martini and a big white mansion?

But it is the extra seasoning of the actors' private scandal that taps into our biggest fears. While girls may claim to still love Ange, to covet her voluptuous curves (when she had them) and pillowy lips and kickass strength, most of us have that deep-rooted, irrational fear that someone we love will leave us. And not only leave us, but for someone just... better. However much we adore Jen, with her Hollywood sweetheart image and yoga mats, I'm pretty sure people can acknowledge that Angelina is not only the scarlet woman, but the more talented of the two. I think lots of people feel in awe of her just getting in there and grabbing Brad, as easy as picking out a Cambodian orphan. There's the thought that maybe Jen had admired her work, her style, envied her awards and accolades before she blinked and her husband was shacked up with her. And there's the nightmare - there's always that girl that you thought was prettier, more talented, more his type than you (that he probably said 'Attractive? I suppose you might say that' about) and the whole team Jen vs team Ange thing just showed it can happen, and on a phenomenal scale.

So we'll probably keep on hating, loving or pitying them publicly until we get some closure from this relationship worst-case-scenario - here are my favourite possible outcomes:

- Brad cheats on Ange, she and Jen become unlikely comrades and embark on a roadtrip with all the kids in tow.
- Ange steals another Hollywood hubby (Ashton Kutcher? David Beckham?) and Brad becomes an angry drunk, storming the stage Kanye-style at every awards ceremony, ranting about what a devil woman she is.

- Jen loses it and takes Ange's 'rainbow family' of kids hostage, making them watch old friends episodes and brainwashing them into tiny yoga fanatics.

- Jen and Brad are talked into making a movie together, fall in love all over again, and all three move in together to start an unconventional but beautiful three-way marriage, stopping only to grab some Colombian triplets on the way back to the manse.

Insane chemistry like Brad & Angelina in the film that made them only happens very rarely, but I wonder how sexy the reality was once it settled down to house, nappies, school runs and shooting schedules. I guess I am still following the scarytale, like every other celeb voyeur out there. Bring on option two!

A la Mode

I remember hearing about the premise of US comedy Ugly Betty and thinking it sounded awful. Even as someone wanting to get into the magazine industry it didn't grab my interest - small, frizzy, unglamorous, unstylish girl lands a job at the highest profile fashion magazine in the country. Cynical, city-slick Stylebots who work there are mean to her. She wins them round with her ungainly Latina charm. I remember reading all the media hype, the interesting background story of the original telenovela Betty La Fea being picked up by Mexican star Salma Hayek and made into a glossy US sitcom. But the idea of taking a bizarrely-set, unrealistic spanish-speaking comedy and making into TV gold just seemed surreal to me - I couldn't shake the image of the Spanish comedy guy in the bee costume who pops up in the Simpsons from time to time. Ay ay ay.

But in the last couple of weeks a combination of channel-changing laziness and the time I tend to hit the sofa now led me to watch several episodes from the new series (the third, I think), and it really surprised me. Not only do they have the magazine industry dead on - not the hyper-real, icy offices or diva editors, but the gossipy staff, the celeb & fashion chat, and there is definitely a Marc and Amanda combo in every glossy's editorial team - but there is also real humour and heart to each episode.



But you don't see a lot of Bettys in Magland, truthfully. I'm probably one of the more clueless interns, and when I say clueless, this usually means too much in love with my sleep to get up at 5 and start blowdrying and strapping on killer heels. Or too much in fear of debt to blow all my meagre earnings on the latest everything. But obviously, with Betty, it is not so much slacking as having an idea of what looks great that just happens to collide with the fashion industry's idea of what's vile. The layering, the ponchos, the printed shirts, the clashing colours... even I wince at Betty's attire - I must be one of them, after all. What her colleagues actually tend to point out are the frizzy mass of hair, the giant fringe, the red glasses and the braces. I actually think she's pretty cute, facially (google America Ferrera without the get-up and she's an absolute fox) and if she was just handed a beautifully cut black shift and some glossy heels she'd look great.

I like the fact that although some of fictional mag Mode's staff are verging on caricatures (Wilhemina Slater is a botoxed work of genius), their storylines are funny and sweet and genuine. I love Betty's gentle father, her brash homegirl sister, the straight-talking gay nephew, the whole lot. The brilliance of the show is contrasting the warmth and chaos of the Suarez home with the arctic flawlessness of Mode magazine.
But Betty's perseverance is pretty inspirational, and best of all is the show's theory that if you work hard and are nice to people, things will work out for you.

And while some days I do feel like this....


I know that I'm getting to do more and learn more than at a publication like Mode (Vogue. Why don't they just say it?)

Now all I need is a boss like this....

The Curious Case of Michael Jackson

Everyone has something to say about Jacko. Whether you thought he was a bit past it, or chose to cling to his 70s and 80s talent explosion, no one is staying silent after hearing of his death. It is sad, in the way that only a Hollywood death can be. He has been compared to Judy Garland, Anna Nicole Smith and Heath Ledger. Judy I'll accept, there are those 'too much too young' stars who seem to both love and loathe their fame, they can't live with or without it. Heath Ledger's death was shocking because of the surprise element; he seemed together, artistic, just embarking on a successful roll of brilliant, dark movies. I am less shocked by Michael Jackson's death, because it seems a miracle he's held on to life this long - certainly the last ten years or so he appeared to be almost in a parallel universe: socially inept, fragile, erratic. Whatever jokes have been made about the surgery, the chimps, the oxygen tent and the sleepovers, Jackson is a very serious case study about the effects of childhood - or a lack thereof - on the adult mind.

I chose this heading because Michael Jackson does seem to me a sort of Benjamin Button figure; In several biographies and obituaries those who met him as a child have remarked on his mature behaviour and adult energy and discipline - Smokey Robinson described young Michael as "a strange and lovely child, an old soul in the body of a boy", while his own mother had remarked that his singing and dancing talents were "like an older person". Funny, then, that this man would eventually become best known for his childlike voice, his apparent naivety, and the Peter Pan comparisons were unavoidable when he created a dream playground of a home and called it Neverland.

"I never had the chance to do the fun things kids do," Jackson once explained. "There was no Christmas, no holiday celebrating. So now you try to compensate for some of that loss."

Usually a decline into madness or depression is mapped by the face of a star; Judy Garland looked haunted, overly made-up and drug-addled in her last months, and Heath Ledger's sudden ageing and insomnia before his death is well documented. But Michael Jackson had carefully turned his face into a macabre mask of pale impishness, and his expressions lived behind layers of cosmetic surgery, sunglasses and long hair. He had smiles for all his fans at the right times, when making foreign visits and with his children, but no one could have seen him physically circling the drain from his TV and magazine appearances.

His death isn't really what saddens me - I don't really mourn people I never knew - it is that he has become a joke and a piece of public property, when he probably should have died a happy old man with a legendary career behind him. The Jackson family lawyer (who made an odd appearance on GMTV, a bizarre display of awkward emotion that just continues the circus of Jacko's image) has hinted that the case is darker than people know, with the people around him heavily implicated in his demise. I feel sort of a relief that the poor guy wont live to see his life dragged through the mud more than it has been. Hopefully we can go back to loving the music and remembering that bright young showman who gave us so many killer tunes.

44th Time's a Charm

"Mr Bush has left the building - feel free to laugh and point"

I watched the inauguration yesterday in complete awe. I am by no means an expert on US politics, but the Washington coverage of Barack Obama taking office almost made me want to learn more. It's such a circus - the religious content spills over everything, the sense of history and ceremony is put forward so theatrically, no one at any moment has the urge to giggle.

Except us Brits, of course. Having a facebook browse after the big event, I found people's statuses surprising; not only the amount of interest this side of the pond, but the struggle between admiration and ridicule, the same struggle I felt whilst watching. Particular moments which inspired amusement included the 'poet' (sorry for the quotation marks, but she read what I can only assume was the ramblings of a stoner with all the emotion and fluency of a Scandanavian sat-nav), Aretha Franklin's performance (I was desperate for an amazing slice of soul, but she sounded forced and over-the-hill, and her shrill gospel riffing clashed horribly with the sombre occasion) and .....forgive me.... Obama slightly cocking up his pledge to protect the office of President. Everyone seemed eager to acknowledge that it was compelling stuff, yet desperate to undermine that feeling with a jibe.

It is not cool to admire America. Especially not in matters of politics and religion.

Actually in the case of Obama's pledging issues, I found it refreshing and poignant that he hadn't been practising it into a hairbrush every night for a decade, it only made the guy seem more human.

I also thought his speech was dignified, eloquent and forceful - I felt he might actually have been the only one not blinded by emotion and patriotism, touching on the bad as well as the good. The most significant thing that kept popping up in the coverage before and after, was a bizarre expectation to hear some 'quotable lines', some snippets of commercial-sounding wisdom that would go down with 'Ask not what your country can do for you...' in the history books. The disappointment when the new President didn't come out with anything bumper-sticker worthy seemed immense.

Is it me, or is that totally missing the point of this supposed change? People want a doer, not a talker, and while Obama's oratory acrobatics have impressed, surely it's his actions that matter? George Bush was your ultimate middle America preacher - lots of 'good and evil', 'our great nation', all of that cute but empty rhetoric. And people still wanted that soundbite from Obama. What he did instead was confront the mistakes of his predecessor, state his aims and try to play down some of that Instant Saviour fever that's been surrounding him since he ran for President. All useful, purposeful and sincere efforts, it must be said.

I felt slightly jealous of the personal connection the thousands of Amerians flooding the Washington monument felt with their new leader - our leaders seem to provide fabulous comic material for panel shows and Private Eye, but we generally lose respect for them before they even come to power. Watching tears run down faces (not just young, not just African-American faces) as he spoke was moving, and not necessarily because of the promise of the man himself. It is that absolute faith that things can and will get better, a total idealism that we are devoid of in the UK. And I'm not sure which attitude I'm more fond of; I adore blunt realism and mistrust blind faith, but we'll never have that feeling of magic in the air on a state occasion. We're too busy waiting for the Duke of Edinburgh to blunder into political incorrectness, for Gordon to flash that less-than-dreamy smile of his, or for Boris to... show up.

There's a reason our history is less animated and thrilling than our transatlantic cousins', why it reads like the classifieds section of Heating, Ventilation and Plumbing News. We don't believe anything anyone has to say, and our politicians know it. Their speeches are unconvincing and bland, they have that hunted look that only Paxman's interrogation can induce... any use of the word Love in its cheesiest, most abstract form (as proudly wielded yesterday by several speakers) would be met by raucous heckles.

I find it fascinating that two countries with such entwined roots can have such starkly different responses to political change. My reaction to the event? Unbelievably pleased for America, while ever so Britishly hoping they don't expect a miracle.