Only one of the above statements isn’t true. But, fuck it, who needs WiFi when you have the Swedish girls? I’m thinking of making them stand really far away so I can pretend they’re thumbnails. Is that weird?

So - yes - hello from San Francisco. I flew in yesterday - New Year’s Day - on an early morning flight from Heathrow. Given that I’d spent the previous night welcoming the arrival of 2009 with the usual gang of drunks, this was, of course, total fucking idiocy.

Who in their right mind flies long haul on a New Year’s hangover? Two hours sleep, boarding while still drunk, cleaning my teeth with my finger on the Heathrow Express. There was a moment, about ten minutes after takeoff when I found myself staring into the mirror of the tiny cattle-class bathroom, contemplating the eleven hours of wedged-in airlessness that was to follow and wondering whether, actually, I’d be better off flushing myself out into the troposphere.

Instead, I decided to curl up and sleep, with BA’s not-very-excellent selection of inflight music to block out the fat yammering fucks sitting next to me and the screaming devil child behind. The irony is that without the hangover, I probably would have been able to sleep for six hours, waking just in time to mainline an episode of Fawlty Towers before final descent. Shortest, most invigorating, flight ever.

By the time I’d made it through security and hopped into a cab, I was almost feeling human again, albeit a human who didn’t know what day it was (how could it still only be 1pm on New Year’s Day?). And by 4pm, checking in to the Vertigo (nee York) and finding that the rennovation of the 6th floor is finished and I’ve been upgraded, I was basically back to normal.

… 

Actually, I’m going to write a whole post about Hotel Vertigo at some point. It proves every point I want to make about the whole technomad thing. But I think it might be a video rather than a text post. Watch this space.

…

So, anyway, where was I? Oh, yes, San Francisco. I’m here for Macworld - and possibly as a jumping off point for CES or whatever else is going on. Also, to catch up with various San Franciscan chums; starting of course with Sarah 2.0 who insisted on meeting me for my first drink of the trip. Seriously, it’s any excuse for that girl to hit the Martinis. I have a feeling it’s going to be an interesting visit, but only time, the blog and the column will tell.

Speaking of which, my New Year’s Eve column is online. 

More soon, first I have to go and finish buying a birthday present…

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I’ve just received transcripts of two reviews of The Book, that appeared in Australian newspapers when it was published there last month.

I’m not really sure what to do with them, so here they are. The first seven words of the first para of the Age review basically sum up my life. As do the first nine of the second.

Bonzer.

Bringing Nothing to the Party: True Confessions of a New Media Whore (The Age)

Paul Carr
Hachette, $32.99

PAUL CARR USED TO BE A journalist whose job entailed hanging around cocky young IT entrepreneurs and writing about their various get-rich schemes and multimillion ventures until one day he decided he wanted to be a participant, not a mere spectator.

Motivated simply by the lure of money and fame, he started up a hybrid internet and publishing company specialising in rather risque web-to-print publications, followed by a site that allowed city dwellers (specifically Londoners) to share miscellaneous information about their town. Bringing Nothing to the Party is a very entertaining, voyeuristic account of Carr’s journey to achieve dot com success by becoming “a new media whore”.

The book is full of flagrant namedropping. There’s even more shameless gossip about the endless rounds of boozy socialising, otherwise known as peer networking that Carr found himself engaged in - necessary to make the right contacts to raise capital for one’s start-up company of course.
What’s great about this expose of the incestuous web of cyberspace opportunists is that you don’t have to be a computer whiz to enjoy it; Carr keeps the technicalities to a minimum, and his breezy, witty, honest narrative brings plenty of chuckles to the party.

…

Bringing Nothing to the Party: True Confessions of a New Media Whore (The Courier Mail)

Paul Carr
Hachette Livre, $32.99

THIS is a truly funny book. Part history, part memoir, it’s also a brilliant and hilarious piece of journalism.

Nerdy wunderkind Paul Carr lands a multi-book deal at the age of 19. This early success leads to a job at The Guardian, writing their new media column, which in turn gives him instant access to London’s most successful internet entrepreneurs, a wild, ambitious, hard-drinking bunch. For the next few years, Carr attends their parties, conferences, launches, and networking events, always impressed and more than a little annoyed that younger, less intelligent people are able to make millions overnight. All it takes, he figures, is one good idea and a little perseverance.

At the age of 25, Carr decides it’s time to get a piece of the action. His goal: to achieve the same kind of instant fame, acclaim and, best of all, riches. Armed with his one idea, Carr pursues capital, assembles a staff, organises publicity, works long hours and — outrageously — fails.

His personal quest is set within the fast-paced, super-hyped culture of New Media, in which luck and timing prove to be more critical than the good idea. His stories touch on how Google got its name, the “Jennicam’” (which launched a thousand reality TV shows), cases of cyber-extortion, Google bombs, selling pixels and the rise of social networks. Peppered with buzzing adjectives and laugh-a-minute anecdotes, Bringing Nothing to the Party is a highly readable textbook on what to do and what not to do in the world of internet start-ups.

…

Is $32.99 (AUS) a lot? Anyone?

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An amazing number of things have changed in the intervening weeks and months, and in so many ways I’m an an entirely different person. And yet, reading it back, sitting at the very same desk in my parents’ hotel as I was sitting when I wrote it… well… what’s that phrase?

Plus ça change, plus c’est la même chose.

…

Disapproval would be folly

24th December 2007

I wasn’t really planning on posting anything over Christmas, and not least because any words I do write really need to be contributing towards a looming deadline. But I sent out a Christmas email to some friends earlier and some of the responses have been particularly touching and now, as the clock trips over past midnight, I’m in a curiously sentimental mood.

It doesn’t feel much like Christmas. I’m trying to force the issue by listening to Christmas songs on iTunes but it’s not working. I just don’t feel that exciting sense of - I dunno - snow and holly and presents and fun - that you’re supposed to feel at Christmas. Not because I’m feeling down, because I’m not; not really. I’m surrounded by family and my phone keeps beeping with festive greetings and plans for New Year. Really, I’ve got a lot to feel grateful for.

It’s just that things feel different this year. I think the reason is two fold (one silly, the other possibly also silly).

Fold number one is that this is the first year, since I was at university, when there has been no Christmas Issue of The Friday Thing. I miss our annual Review of The Year - I went through some old ones earlier today that I stumbled across in my inbox. They were great. Really funny. I know it ran its course and we ended it at the right time, but I miss it. There were a lot of memories in those 11 point Courier New emails. A lot of good writers, some of whom I’m not in touch with any more. Bee and I talked about it the other day and we agreed that there’s definitely a hole. Events that occur where we wish - and I’m sure some of the other ex-TFTers do this - that TFT was still around to say something.

Fold number two is that (and please forgive me) it’s the first year I haven’t been able to text someone - yunno - special just after midnight and wish them Merry Christmas. Midnight feels a bit pointless without that. A bit empty. A bit not at all like Christmas. Somehow.

For sure, this is a landmark Christmas. A time of significant change, for better and for worse, and I’m sure this time next year, I’ll have figured out what my new Christmas traditions are. But for this one - my 29th, Jesus - I think I’m just going to go through the motions for a couple of days and look forward to New Year. At least I’m not sleeping on the floor at Heathrow or dodging snipers in Iraq (who do you think their surprise political visitor will be this year? Barney the dog? Des Browne, stuffed with sage and onion?)

So, yes, I’m going to finish wrapping these presents, finish listening to The Waitresses and go and eat a mince pie with my parents and my brother. Because there’s no reason why me not feeling festive should impact on anyone else, right?

And with that in mind - I hope, despite the fog, you made it home to be with your family. And I hope Santa brings you everything you want, or at least what you need.

A very Happy Christmas to you.

Yes, you.

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Long story short, I’m in Iceland.

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* * * 

In April 1971, martial law was declared in Saigon.

The city had fallen to the North Vietnamese and Secretary of Defense James Schlesinger had announced a dramatic - and belated - airlift of the remaining US, South Vietnamese and foreign nationals from the American Embassy.

Operation Frequent Wind, as it was called, was the largest helicopter evacuation in history, lasting two round-the-clock days until the early hours of April 30th when the last Marines were airlifted out of the compound.

Meanwhile, large numbers of South Vietnamese who didn’t make it on to the helicopters were left to die. By any metric you care to use, America had lost the Vietnamese war - and the final evacuation was a screw up of almighty historical proportions.

And yet, and yet, as the very last helicopter lifted off the roof of the embassy, you can almost guarantee that the pilot turned to the marines huddled in the back and yelled over the intercom “you guys are doing a great job! We can still win this thing!” Why? Because he’s an American and that’s what Americans do in the face of disaster: they encourage.

In France, things are slightly different. In France, when things aren’t going their way, they sulk. They go on strike, they set fire to British sheep, they strike a bit more - and if things get really, really bad, they riot. There is almost no problem in France too small to be sorted out with a good old riot, or perhaps a beheading. Someone used the phrase “le weekend?” Off with their head! Anything to avoid actually accepting that shit happens, the world changes and sometimes you just have to roll with the punches.

I mention these contrasting national attitudes for two reasons. Firstly and foremostly, to annoy Loic Le Meur. For the past week he’s been bitching and whining to anyone who will listen about how unfair my column about LeWeb was.

How dare I suggest that 1500Eur was a quite a lot to pay for no WiFi and a B-list collection of speakers. All week I’ve been getting emails from French journalists asking me to comment on the “scandal” I’ve caused by suggesting that not having a bulletproof way for web start-ups to access the - er - web is absolutely inexcusable. One hack left me a voicemail to say that I had “shat among the pigeons”.

The other reason I mention it is because, since the second day of LeWeb, a transatlantic argument has been raging between Le Meur and TechCrunch’s Michael Arrington over the differences between European and American start-up culture.

It can be summed up thus: first Le Meur accused Valley-dwellers of not enjoying life; of not taking enough of the two hour getting-to-know each other lunches that make the French start-up scene so vibrant. Le Meur knows this is the case because he recently relocated from France to the Valley to launch his start-up, Seesmic.

Arrington countered by attacking Europe’s pessimism and ‘general unwillingness to do whatever it takes to compete and win’. Europe, he declared, isn’t supportive enough of its entrepreneurs and is too lazy to succeed - which is why all the best European entrepreneurs (and Loic) move to the Valley and why all the successful Euro-start-ups get bought by Americans. Le Meur, in turn, responded in the only way the French know how - by sulking; posting a poll on his site asking visitors to vote on whether Arrington should be invited back to LeWeb next year.

Arrington, being American, upped the ante by threatening to - I’m paraphrasing - bomb LeWeb back to the stone age, by hosting a rival event next year from a staging post in London.

Now, I know what you’re thinking. If Arrington hates Europe so much, why host an event in London? Is Britain not part of Europe? Well, no, as far as the start-up world is concerned, we’re not. But nor are we American. Britain is the middle bit of the global technology industry Venn diagram - and that’s exactly what makes us so brilliant.

(Of course, like all journalists, when I say ‘Britain’ I really mean ‘London’. Whatever the BBC might like to pretend, if you’re serious about new media, you need to be in London. In the same way that if you’re in the USA, you should really be in the Valley. Seriously, save your raving emails - there’s regional development money available to encourage companies to relocate to the North and Wales for a reason. And it’s the same reason some people are forced to pay for sex.)

London offers the best of both worlds for web start-ups. We have access to the cream of global VCs, we have the infrastructure and - thanks to our proximity to Oxford and Cambridge - we have the talent. We have all of the creativity of the US, but without any of that delusional “great job!” bullshit that is so inspiring in a boom but utterly crippling in a downturn. We have the joire de vivre, and love of booze of the French but when the merde hits the fan we knuckle down and do what’s needed to get through it.

Unlike the Valley folk, we’re not arrogant enough to shun government support when we need it, but unlike the French we’re not lazy enough to expect it. The recently announced £1billion fund to help British startups will only be available to businesses that are already trading and who have solid business models; it won’t just be a slush fund for bad, untested ideas. A hand-up, not a hand-out. The British way. In America, they’d call it communism; in France they’d probably set fire to it.

Also, while the West Coasters are great at technology, and the French are great at art, London kicks ass at combining the two. Look at the businesses that have come out of London - companies like Last.fm at Moo.com - and you’ll see what I mean. We’re proud of our ideas and our businesses but, if the Americans want to buy them, great - we’re not too proud to sell. I doubt Michael Birch will be giving his hundreds of millions back to AOL any time soon. No matter how much they might need it.

But more important than any of that - the real reason why London is the best place to constantly hit refresh during the industry’s coming Fail Whale is because we’re really, really good at dealing with disaster. We bloody love it. Look how we responded to 7/7. Trains and buses blowing up all around us and we just shrug, sack off work for the day and go to the pub to joke about how it was probably the bloody French taking revenge for the Olympics.

Last night, Techcrunch UK hosted a series of panel discussions in the City, followed by a start-up pitch competition and (of course) a party with buckets of free booze. Between the pitches, I ran into Richard Moross from Moo.com and asked him what advice he’d give to employees laid off from UK startups. He thought for a second and said “I’d tell them to pool their severance money with other laid off entrepreneurs and launch another start up.” That’s the fucking spirit.

And then came the pitches - a group of early stage start-ups explaining their businesses to an audience of VCs, entrepreneurs and journalists. At the end, we were all invited to vote on our favourite by dropping a business card into a little plastic box marked with the company’s name. The start-up that had attracted the most cards by the end of the night would win a bottle of Champagne and the adulation of their peers. In America and France, this kind of competition is taken very seriously - at TechCrunch 50 in San Francisco, a company was very publicly thrown out of the start up competition for bribing people to vote for them. But not in London.

One of the first to pitch was a company from Germany called Jupidi. Their premise was as simple as it was hilarious: relationship advice by text message. Because God knows, if your relationship is in the toilet and you’re curled up at the bottom of a pit of depression, there’s only logical course of action, right? Text a German. When the pitch ended, I sidled over to Sophie and Charlie Cox from Worldeka, one of the other companies in the competition. “I need your business cards,” I whispered, “we’re all voting for Text A German”. Sophie raised a quizzical eyebrow - “You want us to vote against ourselves?” Yes! I mean, come on! Text A German! That’s brilliant. “Good point” said Sophie as she and Charlie handed over their cards. Same story with all of the other Brits I asked. Pretty soon the Jupidi box - previously totally empty - was half-full of cards, including those of three of the other companies in the competition.

In the end Jupidi came third and Worldeka didn’t even make the top three - but Sophie and Charlie didn’t care. Like most British entrepreneurs, they work hard enough all day - no two-hour lunches for them - to worry about sulking or petty rivalries. After hours, as long as there are beers to be drunk and laughs to be had, everything will be fine. And, whatever Arrington and Le Meur might say, right now that British ability to strike the perfect work-laugh balance is exactly what this industry needs.

Now - in that spirit - who wants TextAGerman.com? Free to anyone with the tech savvy, the effort and - most importantly - the sense of humour to build it.

Loic? Michael?

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