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Almost exactly ten years ago I last featured in a major news article, when reporter Sean Kirby of the Nottingham Evening Post described my A-level results as “a barnstorming performance”.

This time round, the on-line journals of Silicon Valley have plenty to report about my semi-professional japes during my time here. My counterpoint in the 1997 story was none other than fellow straight-A student Imran, also headed to Oxford to study Maths; by contrast, the habitually-condescending Valleywag listed me alongside hi-tech posterboy-of-the-moment Mark Zuckerberg. Their take on events pushes both of us through the wringer - and arguably the Facebook CEO comes off worse; although he also emerges as the only paper billionaire, so I think he knows who’s winning.

In extraordinary scenes, photographic records of which are reproduced here by permission of the San Jose Mercury, last week I gave a speech to a gathering of Valley luminaries at Google HQ. The shirt (by ‘H.I.M. Collection’) was purchased with the help of cousin Rachel at a Thai market earlier this year; the podium conceals my convertible trekking trouser-shorts (by fashion label Decathlon Sports).

“Mr. Lester?”

“Yes. Have I found Google HQ? I’m here to tell you what you’re doing wrong.”

“Of course. Please be escorted to the executive suite.”

“I appreciate the opportunity to correct the course of the USA’s fifth-largest company.” [By market cap]

“No - thank you! Hey - it’s a new red carpet, make sure you don’t slip.”

Thus, I began my journey into the heart of corporate America. Sorry to disappoint, but due to visa restrictions I will not be bringing my millions back to the UK. Perhaps I’ll give it another shot some time, once I’ve sorted the correct paperwork.

Looking forward to seeing everyone before Christmas. Returning to London on 15th Dec.

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To save plodding around with a backpack, on my way home for Christmas I am staying for an extended period of time in San Francisco (people who call it Frisco are so sad). Anyway, I am living in a perfectly ordinary flat and I am a normal fully-functioning member of society, I go to work every day, remember to leave the ‘trash’ out on Tuesday evenings, and complain about the parking situation.

Actually, this is a slight misrepresentation because I do not have a job, not least because it would be contrary to the visa waiver arrangement. (Not having a car does not stop me complaining about parking however - it looks like it would be a nightmare for anyone who has to do it.) So, to keep up the illusion, I employ myself in various capacities around the city. My usual routine is to leave the house before those who really do work (this is utterly convincing as long as I can keep up the early starts) and sit in the park until the coast is clear. Lunch sitting on a bench - every other day, at least, since the portions are big enough to go days between meals. One park bench encounter with a gym owner led to a seven day free pass to the local gym, so that has been my afternoon activity for a week (not sure what I’ll do tomorrow).

As I wrote home a few days ago, I am sharing a flat with a lady from Alabama who laughs at my jokes but doesn’t understand them; and a Frenchman who gets my jokes but doesn’t laugh. Things have improved since then and the Frenchman let out a slight smirk when I made an off-the cuff remark the other night (completely unrehearsed, honestly). He claims he was just reminded of something that happened elsewhere, but in my mind it was an unmistakeable breakthrough.

This relaxed lifestyle affords some time to think a bit harder about what I might do on my return to real life scheduled for January 2008. I’ve even experimented with some internet-based projects which could lead somewhere. (I’ve since been advised that browsing the BBC News website is not a possible career - although the two long-term jobs I held in London were evidence to the contrary.)

Remarkably, given the time I’m spending on internet research, I failed to secure a flat with an internet connection. Luckily the neighbours have fairly reliable wireless (don’t worry, the illegality of this set-up is easily overshadowed by my continuing use of cryptographic software). Surely great things must come out of this situation: Bay Area immigrant, lugged his laptop around the world, no-mates, makes internet history using a flaky pirated internet connection - it would make such fantastic newspaper copy that I can’t possibly fail. The likes of such a triumph from adversity have not been seen since Hewlett-Packard grew out of a garage in Palo Alto - and I went to see that too; my garage is dingier.

Just to avoid your possible complicity in an illegal act, I’ve given the neighbours a break and I’m typing this in a cafe. On account of their free wireless, the place has all the ambience of an exam hall. I’m not complaining - I bloody love exams!

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On the way up to Santa Barbara by train, I stopped in Los Angeles for a family union (a bit like a reunion, but I’d never met these people before). Long-lost Great Auntie emigrated long before I was born, partly for the weather. They call California the Sunshine State, but I think that’s just to stop you noticing the freezing Pacific winds and the fog. We had an enjoyable lunch on Mothers’ Day (the generation gap confused some waiters), and it didn’t take long to catch up on the last 27 years - and I left them with copies of my CV in case I had missed out any particularly good exam results.

Santa Barbara, another great retirement location, was quiet enough to enjoy a final stint of solitude to reflect on the North America tour. My only genuine regret was not buying cheap socks when I was in Wal-Mart during the camping trip. Since that missed opportunity I have been unable to find another Wal-Mart, or similar good value elsewhere.

Only twice was I fooled into thinking that adding “chips for a dollar” to a food purchase would be good value. You should see the looks on their faces saying “Ha! You thought you were getting fries, but actually I’ve just handed you a miserable packet of Walkers!”

Now I’m leaving these fond American memories behind and flying back to London for Ben Lester’s 30th birthday party (it is not an open invitation, I’m sorry to tell you). This will be swiftly followed by the demolition party - grab a beer, sit on the hill, and watch them demolish the childhood home! These things don’t happen every day and I wouldn’t miss them for a couple more burgers and a bit of windy sunshine.

The next foreign adventure starts in Bangkok. Two weeks to wait for more remarkable tales!

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When my brother was driving across Australia, he wrote an infamous email about changing the carburettor on his vehicle. While such a story is of dubious public interest, it is an integral part of any arduous journey. I hate to waste anyone’s life, but here is my equivalent tale.

Colin-from-work very kindly donated a laptop lock so that I would be able to chain my computer to a bed, park bench, or other fixed object. This worked very well until two seemingly innocuous events turned things around. First, I hung one of the two keys around the room key chain of a hostel in San Francisco, and then forgot to take it off when I checked out of there. Not a problem of course, because there was a spare - which was immediately promoted to the role of primary key. Secondly, while ‘catching the waves’ in San Diego (alright, building sand castles on the beach), I managed to lose the remaining key at a time when the laptop was chained to the bed. Hence non-technical computer problem.

The internet turned up a video showing how the lock could be easily forced using a toilet roll. Sounds simple, but after five hours spent without the Californian sunshine, fiddling around with toilet paper, I finally got the joke (which is that you can’t in reality open the lock with toilet paper). For humour’s sake, I added a comment to the video saying how it worked first time - it would be wrong not to make others struggle too.

Following a brief attempt to gnaw through the cable, I went to the hardware shop to buy some bolt cutters. They were a snip at $10 (get it!).

Anyway, San Diego’s really nice apparently.

Actually, Ben emerges as the hero in his carburettor story, bravely exposing fraudulent mechanics. I was arguably a bit of a fool, and the lock head is still stuck in the laptop so the saga continues…

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At this historic Spanish mission in San Antonio, a display shows a timeline of important events in Texan history. I spent a moment puzzling over the Texans’ pride in their victory securing independence from Mexico in 1836, but their indifference at donating their country to the United States ten years later. As a reference point, the timeline helpfully includes the patenting of barbed wire (1874 by Joseph F. Glidden). Now it all makes sense!

Another highlight in San Antonio is the Riverwalk, a paved riverside walkway with bars and restaurants, set a level below the rest of the city. It looks a bit like the rapids at Center Parcs.

A local friend very kindly drove me to a BBQ Diner. It turns out that what we think of as a barbecue is really just a grill; BBQ food just needs to have BBQ sauce on it to qualify as BBQ. A bit too much emphasis on the condiments there, I thought (and told them). You don’t go to a Ketchup Diner to eat a burger, do you?

As documented in detail to the true proponents of this particular London fashion, wearing my collar up has caused some confusion amongst the locals. No small number have offered to “fix my collar”, and a hotel owner asked if I was in the military. One passer-by wondered if I was raised in a ditch (the proverbial barn of course being pretty much standard here, anyway).

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“Good luck with the cancer!” I called back to James ‘Redman’ Warren the war veteran I met on Congress Avenue in Austin. He’d just sold me a CD of his country singing. It never worked, and with his lung problems was never going to be great. But Austin is world-famous for its music scene and I was going to get stuck in!

Now I’m not renowned for my love of music, but with all the time in the world, and nothing else to do on the planet, I thought I’d better give it a try. In fact, I’ve rarely been to music performances aside from the times the odd sister or friend has insisted I go.

I suppose the alternative might have been to go to a bar on my own (on this rare occasion, the hostel was quiet and peopled only by quiet Texans). I’ve never done that - in contrast to my good friend James Hawes who only goes to bars solo, and is rumoured to have never been in a pub with anyone else. So at least with a live music performance I could sit in the corner and pretend to like it.

The internet had two main venue recommendations: Antones in Downtown; and Cactus Cafe at the University - a small venue which has launched the careers of many budding artists since 1979. Antones was revealed to be sold out, after a little investigation. Kristin Hersh was playing at the Cactus Cafe, and you couldn’t buy tickets in advance - just queue for hours with other true music fans. Works for me!

Except I needed to pretend I knew what I was talking about in terms of music. I don’t want to be exposed as an outsider. I thought the best bet was to invent some band names and when no-one had heard of them, just shrug it off as being part of a different culture. Would they believe that we just don’t have Michael Jackson, Bruce Springsteen, and anyone else in the UK - and that’s why I don’t know anything about them?

In the queue I meet Ryan: “This is like the 15th time I’ve seen Kristen. I first saw her when she was touring with REM in 1988, and they were even unknown then! How about you?”

“To be honest, I don’t really know who she is.”

“What are you doing here then?”

“Oh, I was just told she was quite good.”

“Wow! You are like the biggest music fan ever! Just trying something new, just because of some recommendation! That’s amazing.”

I was in!

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