Note to self - if you have spent a week travelling across Australia with several early morning starts, then to America on a 13 hour flight with a 16 hour time difference, it is probably not a good idea to spend the first night in your destination on the lash.

If only I had realised this before I did it. It wasn't until 4pm on Saturday that I made it out of the hotel - and even at that ludicrous time of day I still felt like I'd been beaten up and force fed a kilogram of ketamime. I've had jet lag before, but nothing like this. It was horrible. My plans of a relaxing day strolling around San Francisco were shot to buggery.

I managed to visit a few shops before the need for sustenance became overbearing. As it was chilly and I couldn't be arsed to walk around forever, I settled on a Thai establishment close to my hotel. It was one of those places that was a cross between a pub and a restaurant, and it was unclear whether you had to order at the bar or be seated. So I approached a member of staff and asked for a menu. By the look on her face after I made this simple request, you would have thought I'd asked to see a collection of luminous pink dinosaurs. She clearly didn't understand me, so I repeated words I thought would be understandable to any employee in a restaurant - such as 'food'. It was all to no avail. All I wanted was to be seated and for her to take my order (why the fuck else would I have walked through the door?) but all she could do was muster was a startled look and apologise for 'not being American'. I think she was East European. Eventually she understood what I meant after I picked up a menu and started poking it with my finger. By this time other patrons of the restaurant were looking up and glaring at me as if I was a crazed lunatic. Still, the food was very good when it finally arrived.

I have heard viscous rumours that San Francisco may boast the odd homosexual establishment or 500, so I ventured out in the evening to explore. The pubs/bars were lively and generally very friendly. On more than one occasion I was asked by a barman to repeat my order so they could listen again to my accent, which I found slightly bizarre but also quite endearing. Later on in the evening, my nationality again became an issue when I was asked for ID prior to entering a club (it happens all the time here). I presented my passport to the bouncer, and as I was doing so an Irish guy behind me in the queue recognised it was the same colour as his and excitedly asked if I was Irish too (given that all citizens of the EU have the same coloured passport, this was an ambitious expectation). I replied that I was British, which not only induced a scowl on his face but also a series of silly jibes that were obviously designed to play up to his friends. His comments were not even remotely funny. It was playground stuff along the lines of 'oh my god what did you do in a previous life to deserve being British'. I fixed him a glare and went inside. After ordering a drink, the aforementioned Irishman approached me again, pinched my arse and tried to kiss me. He said he wouldn't hold it against me that I was British. Now I'm not normally the sort of person to get wound up by comments about where I was born, but this guy really was really getting on my nerves. I told him to fuck off, which, to be fair, he promptly did.