I'll take a detention

Maybe it was just the school I went to, but the idea of having a crush on a teacher would have been about as socially acceptable as declaring myself a 13 year-old necrophiliac. The time-honoured tradition of fantasising about the hot school teacher, who removed her horn-rimmed glasses and slowly shook out her raven locks, always seemed to be about as reality based as a press release about the stability of the Beckhams' marriage.

Nonethless, the aprocryphal stories of student/teacher couplings continue to proliferate, often finding themselves portrayed in teen TV shows and pop songs. Back in 2002, happy-go-rocky boyband Busted launched themselves off the back of a lusty song about a horny teenager and his MILF-alike teacher. And the otherwise sexless Dawson's Creek saw its first season based around the affair between high school underachiever Pacey and his amorous educator.

This is one cultural trope that refuses to stay behind after school and do its lines. So it's interesting to see that parents in Milan have taken a pre-emptive strike against such extra-curricular activities, by withdrawing their kids from a prestigious school because the teacher was just too damn sexy.

She may have three degrees and be a fully-qualified teacher, but it seems that Ileana Tacconelli was inspiring pupils to use their rulers for something other than geometry. Why else would their parents decide to whip their kids out of the otherwise well-respected Catholic school?

To be fair, not all parents have been quite so incensed by the secondary school sexpot's desk-side manner. In particular, fathers of students at San Carlo Catholic High School "have stood by Miss Tacconelli." Presumably close enough to see down her blouse. 

It probably didn't help matters when it emerged that the erotically-charged educator was also a former model, especially when "racy photographs and video footage" popped up online. Maybe you had a teacher that you'd have liked to see in hot-pants and a bra - my brain turns to stone at the very thought of it. 

Nonetheless, all it took was for one disgruntled house-frau to complain to the headteacher that Ileana was "too attractive and a distraction" for the story to hit the front pages of Silvio Berlusconi's newspaper.

Tacconelli responded to the controversy, presumably whilst spilling crumbs of a Cadbury Flake down her gaping top, by saying "All I will say is that if I had wanted to be a model or a showgirl I would have done it when I was younger and prettier. I have been a teacher here for three years and I have never had any problems. There is nothing really to say and I have the backing of the school and the parents." Well quite. I'm sure many of the parents are right behind her - close enough to put another crease in her skirt. 

According to Osvaldo Songini, head of the upper school, "Ileana passed all the very strict requirements to be a teacher here and we are very satisfied." I guess that means she was able to explain the periodic table in a wet t-shirt. 

Sognini also stated "For us here, from don Geranzani down she is an optimum teacher and she has all the qualifications needed. We knew all about her past as she never kept it hidden." Or her lacy bra straps, for that matter. Moral of the story? You shouldn't judge a frayed textbook by its cover. 

My favourite mistake

Just ask anyone who's been shoved into a pair of white tights on the Ricki Lake show - they'll tell you that makeovers don't always work. It's nice to revamp your appearance now and then, but sometimes you just end up looking like Ann Widdecombe in a ballgown. 

Which is how the brand team at GAP must be feeling after last week's aborted attempt at updating their image fell flat with the public. To be fair, brand overhauls often backfire - remember New Coke? Somebody in Atlanta figured 'If it ain't broke, fuck it up anyway', and changed the formula of a drink that had been successfully flying off the shelves for a hundred years. 

The public reaction was furious, as though their favourite soda had been replaced with a bottle of piss-flavoured mouthwash. Coca-Cola promptly went from backlash to backtrack, and promptly reintroduced 'Classic Coke'. And the world's rapidly decaying teeth were once again clenched in a satisfied grin. 

Perhaps the brand bigwigs who decided to reinvent GAP figured they'd have an easier job on their hands. The products are well made, affordably priced and reasonably stylish, but it's a tough brand to get passionate about. It's a little like adding yourself to the Facebook fanpage for Cash In The Attic or Vileda Super Mops. 

So everyone was surprised when the company unveiled its new logo last week and the public outcry began. People were horrified that so much of their beloved logo had changed - but then again, with just three letters and a blue square, there was only so much that the designer could do. 

Out went the capitalised serif font, and in came the sentence-case sans-serif alternative. Meanwhile, that all-important blue square got shoved behind the P, like an ornamental plate hanging on a pensioner's wall. 

The public reaction was swift and brutal - this was the branding equivalent of Meg Ryan unveiling her new face. GAP had no choice but to resurrect the original logo and issue a mea culpa to the waffle-sweater loving populace. 

No-one likes to admit that they've made a mistake. But the cynic in me suspects that this wasn't actually the grievous error that the press coverage would have us believe. In the end, the only thing that this exercise has proven, is that even a taupe, loose-fitting company like GAP can have an army of passionate followers. And it's managed to snag a bunch of free column inches detailing just how enthusiastic its supporters are about the brand. Someone give the PR team a pat on the back. 

Sticking it where the sun don't shine

The Hollywood bean-counters are struggling to understand how the 3D second sequel to a movie based on a cable TV show managed to break Autumn box office records this last weekend. I guess nobody was expecting a film about a bunch of middle-aged adolescents abusing each others' genitals, to earn $50 million. The shock was akin to being catapulted into the air in a shit-filled Portaloo - just one of the stunts offered in the latest installment of Jackass.

No-one's ever been able to fully explain the appeal of Johnny Knoxville and his calamitous cohorts, except for that fact they display a singularly unique lack of vanity or restraint in their pursuit of the ultimate thrill.

Snarky commentators have been content to sit back and condemn the boys for their idiotic exploits, but they're missing the point. It may be an oxymoron, but the Jackass gang are knowingly mindless.

Given their propensity for penile abuse and amateur proctology, it's easy to point the finger (sheathed in a rubber glove) and accuse them of having latent homosexual leanings. But it seems that the boys don't so much lean, as bend over willingly.

In a new interview with Vanity Fair, timed to coincide with the new film's release, Johnny and Steve-O were able to take the flatulence out of interviewer Eric Spitznagel's sails, as the journalist attempted to get under the skin of the stars' obsession with man-on-man action.

In a surprisingly articulate response to a question about all the "anal play and nipple torture and testicle touching", Steve-O explained that "We always thought it was funny to force a heterosexual MTV generation to deal with all of our thongs and homoerotic humor. In many ways, all our gay humor has been a humanitarian attack against homophobia. We’ve been trying to rid the world of homophobia for years, and I think gay people really dig it too."

So the next time you see a bunch of men inserting fireworks into each other's orifices and lighting the fuse in fits of giggles, don't be so quick to judge. It turns out, they're making a political statement about close-mindedness and intolerance, as well as recommending a cost-effective solution for anal depilation. And that's something that you can try at home.

Normal service resumes

And just like that, the holiday was over. Our last couple of days were spent ticking the last few items off our 'must see' list for San Francisco, trudging swollen-footed around such notable sights as the Museum of Modern Art and the Palace of Fine Arts. Along the way we made enough return trips to Abercrombie & Fitch to constitute a formal pilgrimage.

But that's all over now - we're home and unpacked, which means two things - a shitload of laundry and about fourteen hours of X-Factor on the Sky+ to wade through. So the washing machine's spinning happily, and so's the disc drive of the PVR unit. But you're already up-to-date with the runny mascara and last-minute changes, so I won't bore you with a delayed reaction to something you've already forgotten.

However, what did strike me, as we sat down to catch up on all the action from the last couple of weeks, was the fact that the press are still falling over themselves to report on every side-eyed glance between the judges, and every potential conflict between the contestants. And it looks as though there's plenty of backstage gossip for them to be getting on with.

So say a big 'thank you' to the TV gods who saw fit to give us the gift of Katie Waissel - a girl who makes Norma Desmond seem shy and unassuming. Demonstrating a flair for the dramatic that made good on her promise to be a star in "music, acting, fashion and medicine", this Lady Gaga/Marie Curie hybrid turned on the waterworks at the judges' home stage of the competition.

Attempting to sing Charlie Chaplin's Smile from under a pair of false eyelashes that looked like something Pepe Le Pew would rape, she broke down because the song was "very emotional". After a mini breakdown, she managed to pull things together to perform it properly second time around. Even Cheryl Cole called her on being a drama queen, and that's someone who thought Ashley was good marriage material.

When she's not strolling through a cornfield twirling Mary Poppins' parasol for her close-ups, Katie is actually a fiercely competitive contestant, and has even roped in her family to fight her corner. Today's Mail features an exclusive story about Katie's mother, a 'boutique owner' from Harefield, Middlesex, who's complaining that Tesco is exerting its considerable might behind frumpy check-out worker Mary Byrne.

Smelling another SuBo-shaped phenomenon, the supermarket giant is backing its home-grown heroine, perhaps in hope that they'll score an another exclusive distribution deal for the inevitable album. After all, those Nadine Coyle CDs aren't likely to fly off the shelves.

According the Mail's coverage, Tesco has sent emails to its 300,000 employees reminding them of Byrne's appearance in the live shows. Although, anyone who's ever read any kind of internal communications messaging knows how desperate they are for content. Getting an employee into the UK's most popular show is quite a coup for Tesco, it's hardly surprising that they'd want to shout it from the service station rooftops.

Always keen to sniff out a scandal, the Mail points out that they were the ones to break the story last week that "a rival chain had complained about the X-Factor's promotion of Tesco. The company was mentioned eight times in just three shows featuring Byrne." Given that the "I work on a till at Tesco" has now replaced "I'm doing this for my dead Dad" in the sob-story stakes, I'm not sure anyone at the UK's number one supermarket would be overjoyed by the coverage.

To hear Mary talk about her day job, you'd think she was forced to fill in for Hercules, cleaning the Augean Stables with her toothbrush for 18 hours a day. Not swiping loose vegetables over a scanner and packing a few bags.

Nonetheless, Tesco has remained upbeat and supportive of Mary, denying it was attempting to influence people's vote, but adding "She has reached the X-Factor finals on her talent alone." Which is more than can be said for Katie, who's yet to find a song that doesn't sound better on the second go-round. Her mother can bitch about Tesco's influence all she like, but Katie's biggest deficit is her like-ability, not a network of supportive work colleagues.

Sour grapes? That'll be aisle five, next to the bananas.

That's what friends are for

Well, it's been a busy few days, and I'm currently munching from a pack of wasabi peas that feel a little like the US military are firing napalm through my sinuses. At least it means that my nostrils will be hair-free for a few years.

So, what have your intrepid explorers been up to in the last couple of days? Well, with our transit system tickets fully activated, we've attempted to cut down on the amount of hillwalking we've undertaken. Not least because my new foot-gloves (see previous post) feel as though Satan's minions are applying angle-grinders to each of my toes concurrently. It's like elective surgery, without the benefit of a noticeable outcome.

Anyway, yesterday we arose at stupid o'clock to get down to Pier 33 in time to collect our tickets for the Alcatraz tour. I was a little worried that the confirmation email hadn't fully downloaded to my iPhone, but once again, the customer service agent was so helpful that it didn't really seem to matter. So with tickets in hand, we joined the pre-boarding queue, which included a stop-off in a photo area where your picture was taken in front of a blue screen.

This meant that advanced computer technology (AKA Photoshop 101) could insert a background of Alcatraz island and charge you $22 for the privilege. Given that we were just moments away from being able to do the same thing, but for real, this seemed like an unnecessary extravagance. Nonetheless, we grinned like idiots but folded our arms defensively, so that we'd have a good reason for rejecting the pictures when the hard sell began upon our return to the mainland.

The Alcatraz tour was much as I remembered it as an impressionable 14 year-old, the main difference being that the audio tour has been upgraded from Walkman to MP3. It was also noticeable that the main prisoner stories being recounted from the island's 'glory days' make no mention of the 'Murder in the First' years, which saw one prisoner tortured, and ultimately murdered, for daring to fight back againt the inhumane regime. Maybe they just don't care for Kevin Bacon. I can understand that.

We stopped off for lunch at Fisherman's Wharf, where Doug fought his way through a steak sandwich so tough that it would have given Alex Reid a black eye, and I had a clam chowder that neglected to include any clams. But the waiter was cute so he still got a 20% tip. That's just the way we roll.

Today, we insisted on a late start and a low-key itinerary. That meant breakfast at Orphan Andy's diner, a place so authentically retro that you half expect racially segregated dining booths. Thankfully it's a far more progressive place than that, with the friendliest welcome that you could ever hope for without the involvement of hand lotion.

Sitting in that pleather booth, chatting to the proprietors about the finer points of Hitchcock's Vertigo, I suddenly realised how misunderstood the American people are. It's so easy to dismiss them as immune to irony. But that's not the case at all. Sure, they may take themselves a little seriously at times, but ultimately, they see the best in everyone.

If they talk to you on the bus or subway, it's not because they want to steal your bag. And if they ask you if you're "still working on that meal", it's not because they're eyeing up the 15% tip that seems to be mandatory over here. It's because they're genuinely interested.

Wherever we've been, whether it's a wine-tasting in the Ghirardelli, breakfast in a diner or after-work cocktails in the Castro, everyone is keen to include you in the conversation. When everyone's so sincere and friendly, there's no place for sarcasm or cynicism. And that makes for a refreshing change of pace.

We're not in Kansas anymore Toto

Ah, San Francisco. Where Tony Bennett left his heart, and the gays, their underwear. This morning we had a later start than usual, thanks to our gradual acclimatisation to the time difference. So we sat in the Castro to enjoy a fresh orange juice in the warm morning sun. An off-duty drag queen sat darning a costume, happy hand-holding couples strolled up the street with their tiny, overdressed dogs, and an old bear sat in the middle of it all as naked as the day he was born (although, I imagine, significantly more tumescent).

Having gotten the hang of the muni transit system, we decided that today would involve less walking than the previous day. Admittedly, we did overdo it a little, with a packed agenda that would have a triathlete breathing into a paper bag. As if the miles and miles of hillwalking wasn't enough, we even rented bikes and cycled along the sea front, then across the Golden Gate bridge. The official guide suggested that we keep going all the way to Sausalito, but I sensed that Doug's patience was growing as thin as the soles of his overworked shoes. Thankfully, most of the return journey was downhill, and unencumbered by the crowds of gormless tourists that had plagued our outbound slog.

It's Fleet Week in San Francisco, which means that the city is awash with seamen (steady on) as all the naval ships come to the city and give their crews shore leave for a few days. It's a uniform fetishist's idea of heaven.

We watched the airshow from a cafe by the water, and marvelled at how impossible it is to deduce the cost of a meal based on the prices in a menu. Aside from constantly attempting to calculate the equivalent price in sterling, there's the sales tax to think of. Then there's the tip, which here in the US is supposed to be between 15 and 25% of your total bill. On top of that, we discovered a new surcharge called the 'Healthy San Francisco' charge - this was a new scheme introduced by the city's mayor to force bars and restaurants to pay for healthcare for food service professionals. Which is all very commendable, but it does mean that the bill can sometimes run to several pages.

We took the opportunity to have a good mosey around the Castro area, which has a pretty good selection of bars, restaurants and shops. There are some great store names as well, from the 'Squat and Gobble Creperie' to 'The Sausage Factory' pizzeria. Oh, and don't forget the 'Hand Job Nail Spa'. When it comes to naming your business, the smuttier the better. Surely it won't be too long before they stop trying to be funny, and just go for all-out rudeness. Meet you at the 'Fuck Me Harder Pattiserie'.

Where was I? Oh, that's right, shopping. Having marvelled at the extraordinary variety of items available that can be inserted into the human body (not to mention the eye-watering size of them) we moved on to a more mainstream shopping experience.

I was looking for some kind of light walking shoe, and ended up buying a bizarre pair of Vibram FiveFingers. I know that sounds more like something you'd buy in one of the afore-mentioned sex shops, but I promise they're entirely legitimate footwear. They're like clingy, rubberised gloves for your feet and apparently change your entire posture and walking style by "emulating the sensation of being barefoot". I could have just taken my regular shoes off and saved myself a hundred dollars, but figured 'what the hell'. Then I looked down and thought 'what the hell?' From the ankle down I look like an Afro-Carribean hobbit. I'm impressed so far, but no doubt I'll change my mind when I awake in the night with crippling back-ache.

Blame it on the salesman. Unlike a British shop assistant who'd struggle to muster the energy to tut in my direction, the sales people here are so incredibly friendly, you almost feel like buying something out of gratitude. They greet you on your way in, they thank you for your visit when you leave, and they know everything there is to know about every item in stock. Anyone who works in the service industry should be forced to visit the US for a couple of days as part of their induction programme. As a consequence of all this 'super awesome' service, my bank manager and I will be forced to sit down and have a frank conversation when I get back to the UK.

Be sure to wear a flower in your hair

Well, here we are again. Greetings from the gayest place on Earth, other than Disneyland or Living TV. We're now in San Francisco, where the weather is glorious, the flags are rainbow and the vistas are hilly.

Our last day in New York was spent retracing our steps and visiting the last few places we'd missed, lugging our ridiculously heavy carry-on bags with us. In just five days we'd managed to tick off everything on Beth's alarmingly comprehensive itinerary. Our every movement was planned with military precision and we left no stone unturned in uncovering everything that the city had to offer.

For a special treat on our final night, Beth took us to Bobby Flay's Bar Americain for the most insanely tasty steak we've ever had. Everything about the dinner was perfect, from the blue cheese dip served with homemade potato chips, to the buttered spinach and goat's cheese cauliflower that we ordered, if only to remind our bodies what vegetables are. And the waitress was so effortlessly attentive and psychically attuned to our needs, I started to suspect the involvement of dark forces.

Our final moments in New York were spent hammering our credit cards on Fifth Avenue. Not so much retail therapy, as retail rehabilitation followed by a 12-step programme. We spent a particularly long time in Abercrombie & Fitch, thanks in part to the prevalence of semi-naked male models standing around the store with pouts you could rest a coffee cup on.

For a clothing store, there's very little emphasis on buying or selling clothes. There may be five floors in the flagship store, but they only had about eight different items to choose from. Everywhere you turn it's the same red lumberjack shirt, on the staff, on the mannequins and on every display table. A&F has also taken its lead from the supermarkets that pipe the fresh bread smell into their air-con system. Only here, its the overpowering Abercrombie cologne which gradually works its way into your system until you're incapable of breathing without it.

Still, it was with heavy hearts and even heavier suitcases that we took a cab to JFK for the second half of our trip. I was originally dismayed to learn that we would be travelling with American Airlines, since my last experience on-board an AA flight was like being stuck in an airborne rest-home where the daily activity involved getting the residents to serve lukewarm coffee with a sneer.

Maybe it was something in the air (perhaps even those A&F pheremones still seeping out of my epidermis) but everyone on board was in such a good mood. The staff we're falling over themselves to help (not literally, thank goodness) and the passengers were all so friendly and courteous to one another, offering to swap seats, help each other with bags. Even the in-flight movie seemed to have been re-edited for content to make it more upbeat.

Six hours later, and we were settling into our little B&B in the heart of the Castro. That's San Francisco's famous gay district, where even the bins have rainbow stickers on them, and every store has a comprehensive range of porn to suit every taste - irrespective of their main product offering.

Drinking is a pretty expensive business here - where a small glass of wine will set you back about eight dollars. So we were glad to find a bar that offered potent $5 cocktails and appeared to be playing Lady Gaga videos on a loop. It was also only a short stagger back to our accommodation, which was handy.

Today was an opportunity to get our bearings, so that meant more walking. My legs are now three inches shorter than they were at the start of this trip. We visited the port, the TransAmerica pyramid, Grace Cathedral, Nob Hill (that was a disappointment) and a little place called Macondray Lane in Russian Hill.

That's where you'll find a rickety set of wooden steps that played a fundamental role in Channel 4 and PBS's seminal mini-series 'Tales of the City', based on the books by Armistead Maupin. It was incredible to finally see the steps for real, although I'm not entirely sure that Doug shared my enthusiasm for this tiny piece of pop-culture history. Especially not after trudging across half of San Francisco's most unforgiving hills to get there. *Message to the creators of Dorling Kindersley's otherwise excellent travel guides - "Your maps are beautifully drawn and annotated, but please include topographical details next time."

Attempting to shave a few hundred metres off our return journey, I navigated us towards the beautiful sounding, and historically significant 'Tenderloin' part of town. Turns out, it's the kind of place where even Amy Winehouse would be looking over her shoulder nervously. Crack addicts, homeless people and anyone who enjoys standing in piss-soaked trousers yelling at street-signs call the Tenderloin home. Thankfully, so too did a friendly passing bear. Concerned for our innocence, and our highly attractive photographic equipment, he swept to the rescue and guided us back towards civilisation, cameras still intact.

Who know what adventures tomorrow holds. In a city like San Francisco, you never can tell...

No pity in the naked city

Here's a news flash for the uninitiated - October in New York can be chilly. Bring a jacket, hell, bring two.

Our second day in the city saw us heading downtown (where the lights are bright) to visit SoHo, Greenwich Village, Little Italy, Chinatown and Bleeker Street - home to the hippy movement. Looking up at the architecture, you're struck by how many fire escapes there are. Ladders, walkways and drop down ramps are stuck on the side of every building, as though the entire city is under constant threat of spontaneous combustion.

Under heavy skies and a constant persistent drizzle, we made our way to Christopher Street and and made a pilgrimage to the Stonewall Pub - birthplace of the modern gay rights movement. It all kicked off in 1969, on the night of Judy Garland's funeral, when the gays decided that their favourite night-spot had endured one-too-many police raids. The bar's regulars decided that they were only going to kneel in subjugation when they felt like it, and thus was born the Stonewall riots. The moral of the story here - never spill a drag queen's drink.

With Beth resigned to a convalescent home for the terminally knackered, we were on our own yesterday, so tripped off to Battery Park to pick up our tickets for the Statue ferry tour. For the cruise across the harour we sat up top, on metal benches so uncomfortable that the Marquis De Sade would have considered them inhumane. The sky was also rolling with grey cloud, giving the entire panorama a rather depressing palour.

We followed the prerecorded instructions about how to disembark the ferry, which seem to be voiced by Reverend Lovejoy, and called in at the visitor centre to pick up our audio tour mp3 players. It's a long time since I took an audio tour, but the experience was not dissimilar to the training level at the start of 'Tomb Raider' - "Walk to the bottom of the steps, take a left and then look at the flagpole." I wouldn't have been too surprised if the voiceover had instructed me to vault over the nearest wall and practice my somersaults.

Although the audio tour felt a little too prescriptive at times (and could have benefitted from a 'yeah, I get it, move on' button) it was pretty interesting. For instance, we learned that Bartholdi, who conceived and designed the Statue of Liberty, was actually just recycling old ideas he'd had for a lighthouse in Egypt, inspired by the Colossus of Rhodes. And there was me thinking that Michael Mann was the first person to repurpose ideas from a lesser work to great critical acclaim.

The voiceover also told us about the challenge of creating a suitable pedestal on which the statue could be displayed. The winning design by Richard Morris Hunt managed to be classic and awe-inspiring, without detracting from the giant green woman that would stand on top of it. As the audio tour explained "It was particularly hard for an architect to design something that would never be noticed". Perhaps Hunt should have tried his hand at copywriting in an agency - producing output so inconsequential, it disappears from your brain before you've even finished reading it.

While the French were busy raising money to pay for the statue, which was their gift to the American people (mix-tapes and friendship bracelets don't have the same impact), the US was facing a similar challenge. Legendary publisher Pulitzer used his newspaper 'The World' to encourage members of the public to contribute whatever they could to the Pedestal Fund, in exchange for a mention in the paper. Suddenly, Peter Jackson's idea of selling credits in the extended editions of Lord of the Rings does't seem like quite such an odd concept.

There's a great display of Liberty memorabilia in the museum, including one startling piece of WW2 propaganda - "That liberty shall not perish from the earth - buy liberty bonds." The image on the poster depicted a decapitated statue. All that was missing was the giant squid/lobster beast from Cloverfield in the background.

Having spent long enough staring up liberty's skirt to qualify as a gynaecological engineer, we took the ferry over to Ellis Island - which during a 40 year period managed to process over 12 million immigrants. Interestingly, the audio tour here directed us to the first floor 'registry room', pointing out that the steps themselves were part of the screening process for would-be immigrants. Doctors would stand at the baloney to observe whether anyone had difficulty handling the stairs. Of course, the helpful audio guide also pointed out that any burger-munchers who couldn't handle the stairs today could always take the elevator.

Our final destination yesterday was Ground Zero, and the 9/11 memorial museum. Although the content was compelling and emotional, there's something strangely distancing about seeing an event you observed in real time, now represented by dust-covered relics in temperature-controlled cases. Only nine years have passed since the towers fell, but the museum concept makes it feel more like a hundred. Perhaps that's what the people of New York need in order for their wounds to heal.
 

Empire State of Mind

Greetings from the Big Apple, and welcome to a different kind of blog for the next few days. Since the promise of free wireless turned out to be something other than the truth, I'm forced to buy a giant cup of coffee in exchange for an hour of free wireless access. That means that I've got more caffeine running through my system than the Red Bull canning factory, and my internet usage has been severely curtailed.

I'm also doing my best to use the iPad on this trip, and I'm discovering that it doesn't really facilitate my kind of tab-happy web browsing - which means it's tough to keep track of eleventy-three different pop culture stories.

So if you're willing to indulge me, p0pvulture will be your shiny, not-quite-so-orange Judith Chalmers, as I peel back the eyelids of the city that never sleeps.

Our first impressions as we arrived at the Gershwin Hotel is that $300 dollars a night doesn't get you a whole lot of space - the 'Superior Double' may boast stripped wooden floorboards, but there's so little space in the room you have to look under the bed to see them. *Note to self - never look under a hotel bed.

The hotel itself is self-consciously 'arty'; the kind of building that ought to have a giant pair of designer glasses across its frontage (no lenses, natch, just the frames). And maybe it's the close proximity of the 'Museum of Sex', but it looks as though the facade is dripping in giant illuminated sperms. Welcome to the world's foremost bukakke hotel...

Yesterday we hit the town with our friend Beth who rose to the challenge of 'official tour guide' with considerable aplomb, except for the fact that she didn't choose the most appropriate footwear. By mid-afternoon, having walked for about fifty blocks, her feet were red raw - a rookie error for a native New Yorker.

Along the way we visited FAO Schwartz, where we tried out the giant piano from Big. I was half expecting to see a sign like the one in Wayne's World ('No Stairway To Heaven') that said 'No Chopsticks'. Turns out, no such sign was necessary, since it's impossible to make music on a keyboard when five shoeless kids are throwing themselves up and down the keys on their knees.

We also went to the Top of the Rock, a rather exciting-sounding experience at Rockefeller Plaza, which justifies them charging guests $21 per person to ride in a lift. When you work with big banking clients you get to travel to the 50th floor for free. Still, the views were spectacular and I was able to take some great pictures of the whole of Manhattan. Suddenly that new camera I bought in Duty Free at Heathrow didn't seem like quite such an unnecessary indulgence.

The thing that really hits you about New York is the sense of space. It makes you realise that most representations of the city that you see in TV and the movies are studio based - either filmed indoors or on a small-scale backlot. They might be able to recreate the architecture and the major landmarks, but without the sense of vastness that you get with the real thing.

Oh, and here's a tip. When you're trying to balance a budget, stay the hell away from Saks Fifth Avenue menswear department. Some might say that $2,000 is a little pricey for a jacket - until you've felt the exquisitely tailored lamb's leather on your skin, I say you don't know what you're talking about. The only problem is, I have to decide whether I want an Armani frock coat or a new car. Decisions, decisions...

For lunch we took the advice of several friends and visited Carnegie Deli - famous for its gargantuan sandwiches. We ordered the 'Ruben' - a gruesome deposit of sliced pastrami, sauerkraut and melted Swiss cheese that looked like something you'd expect to see on the pavement outside a nightclub. After diligently chomping on it for about half an hour, I got the disturbing sensation that the sandwich was actually regenerating.

There seemed to be more on the plate by the time we threw down our forks in defeat, than there had been when we first began our Herculean undertaking. It's worth a visit, provided your skin is thick enough to deal with some of the most unfriendly service you'll ever encounter. I thought we were going to be put in detention for sitting in the wrong seat.

Today we're going to immerse ourselves in the heart and soul of New York - yesterday was like inspecting the city's hair extensions and nail art. Wish us luck!

Between a rock and a hard place

Next time you have a bad day at the office, remind yourself that things could be a whole lot worse. When the low-point of your day is a tedious conference call or a particularly bitter cappuccino, remember that at least you're not stuck half-a-mile underground, watching 32 of your colleagues shit in a bucket.

Unfortunately, that's the grim reality currently facing the Chilean miners who have been trapped in a collapsed copper mine for almost eight weeks. As the rescue effort enters its third long month, the men are holding up remarkably well.

You could scoff that it's a lot easier to cope with the inherent scariness of being trapped in a confined space when that's your daily reality anyway. Nonetheless, even the most stable mind would find itself tested when stuck in the same place for months on end. I work in a pretty nice office, but if we were all locked in, I'm sure we'd have regressed into a 'Lord of the Flies'-style social order before the first weekend rolled around.

It's not all doom and plenty of gloom for the miners though - the relief workers were quick to drill a 700 metre bore hole to supply the men with a few home comforts. Having said that, looking at the infographic on the BBC news site, some of the items seem a little incongruous, given the situation the men find themselves in.

Syringes and vaccines make a lot of sense, as do the aluminium poles for camp beds and vacuum-packed meals. I just hope none of the miners are too picky about the choice of sandwiches - it's not like they can pop back into Subway and ask for extra red onion on their BMT.

The miners have also been sent toothbrushes and paste, illustrated by the BBC with a pack of Colgate Total Whitening. Although that seems like an unnecessary indulgence - in the dim light of a collapsed mine even the Queen Mother would have had a dazzling smile.

Even weirder is the fact that the men have been sent a batch of signed Barcelona shirts. What if some of them don't support the team? The last thing they need is a fight breaking out between rival supporters.

How about a digital camera? Once they've taken a few pictures to show that they're all OK, what else are they going to photograph? Someone's going to end up with a photo album filled with hundreds of shots of inky blackness, punctuated with a few radiant grins.

However, it's testament to the men's resilience that they're still managing to work eight-hour shifts, despite their dire circumstances. With another Tube strike looming on the horizon, as London Underground workers protest job cuts and working conditions, the Chileans' work ethic throws our pampered lives into harsh perspective. I hope Bob Crow is taking note.