On Wednesday I checked out of my hotel in San Francisco with a monumental hangover, and took a cab to the airport. I was going to fly to a place I had never wanted to visit before.

It took half an hour of queuing to check in my baggage, and when I finally did get to the counter I was told I had exceeded the weight allowance and would have to either remove some items or pay an extra $50. Wishing to avoid the spectacle of disposing of my personal belongings in the middle of the airport terminal, I offered to pay the money - and then was told I had to join a separate queue to do this. After another half an hour, I reached the second counter, where they weighed my bag and simply checked it in without saying anything. Bizarre.

After an hour of various ticket and security checks, I finally made it to the departures lounge. To be fair, the delay was largely a result of the sheer number of people at the airport. There had been a big baseball game in town the night before, apparently.

I'll say one thing for Americans - they know how to serve up good hangover food. Before boarding the flight - which was delayed by nearly an hour - I ordered a hot ham and cheese sandwich. I thought that meant toasted, but no. They fried the sandwich, added a portion of chips for good measure and then chucked a load of salt and seasoning over it all. Normally I would have been taken aback. On this occasion, I couldn't have been more grateful.

Anyway, the reason I was at the airport was to fly to a city I had hitherto had no interest in ever seeing whatsoever. I was off to the ultimate sin city - viva Las Vegas. Ever since I was a kid, I have loathed tacky resorts. Equally, I'm not much of a gambler - the odd day at at the races is about as much as I do. I also have serious concerns about the social implications of gambling. I saw in Australia - home to more slot machines than any other country in the world, believe it or not - countless examples of people destroying their lives through gambling.

So, why was I off to Vegas? Partly because so many people whose opinion I normally trust had urged me to go while I was in the area. Partly because I was intrigued just to see it. And partly because the cost of hotels on weekdays is ludicrously, absurdly cheap. You can literally live the life of luxury on a budget in Vegas if you go on the right days. I also felt two days would be sufficient to 'do' the city, while the same time in a place like Los Angeles would probably not do it justice.

When I arrived at my hotel, my jaw physically dropped. Then again, given that it is biggest in the world, I suppose that is not particularly surprising. I was staying that the MGM Grand, which has more than 5,000 rooms. The reception area was about the size of an average airport terminal. When I went to check in, I was asked if I wanted to upgrade to a suite for an extra $25 a night. The naughty voice in my head said 'go on, you might as well do this properly' and so I duly upgraded. I was still only paying the equivalent of 55 pounds a night to stay here.

As I walked into my suite, I couldn't help but laugh out loud. It was the size of most flats I've lived in, with a king sized bed, a jacuzzi bath, sofas, wide screen tv and bar. And I repeat - I was getting all of this for what you would expect to pay for a room in a travelodge off the A12 back home. Incredible.

The hotel itself was no less amazing. Its sheer size was what took me aback - on top of the ubiquitous slot machines, there were something like a dozen bars, christ knows how many restaurants, a shopping mall and six swimming pools. After a spot of sun bathing by the pool, I retired to my room and the naughty voice again told me 'go on, you might as well do this properly', and so I ordered a bottle of champagne on room service and relaxed in the jacuzzi. I felt like such a tosser. It was great.

In the evening I explored Las Vegas' famous Strip. It was clear that my hotel was just one of scores of other complexes of unfathomable size. I had never seen anything like it before in my life. Each hotel was quite literally almost a separate town in its own right - some had hundreds of shops, bars and restaurants.

What became obvious to me while I was walking around this bizarre and incredible place, was that gambling is just one of the activities that goes on here. It is the activity which launched Vegas, but it is no longer a prerequisite for coming to the city.

Much of Vegas is cheesy and tacky - the imitation Eiffel Tower, Statue of Liberty and so on. The orgy of commercialism over culture that typifies the place is also unappealing in many respects, but to complain about it would miss the point. This is a city that does not pretend to be anything other than what it is. This is an oasis of indulgence, a place where opulence is affordable and the poor can quite literally live like the rich. For its sheer difference to anywhere else I have ever visited, I liked it immensely.

This might sound strange, but you don't have to like Las Vegas to enjoy visiting it. The place is a complete freak show, but one that nonetheless completely captivates you from the moment you arrive.

As I stood in a left wing bookshop, the faint smell of cannabis could be detected from a passing couple of hippies. It was hard to believe I was in George W Bush's America.

In reality, I was not. The United States is a country of opposite extremes. Life in cities like San Francisco is liberal, laid back, forward thinking and confident. Most people vote Democrat. I don't need to describe what life is probably like in Crawford, Texas.

The bookshop was in the Haight area of San Fran, which is one of the most iconic symbols of the 1960s. It was here, in 1967, that the infamous 'summer of love' took place. The Haight's reputation for drug fuelled, psychedelic lifestyles attracted thousands of young Americans from the more conservative parts of the country. It still does today, to an extent. I was quite shocked my the sheer number of young white kids, who looked liked they'd been travelling for days rather than substance abusers, that stopped me in the street and asked for money. They had obviously just left home, either in search of some kind of mythical new life or to escape their current existence. The area felt more like it was living of its past rather than offering some exciting alternative present, I have to say.

From the Haight I wondered the short distance down to the Castro, which is the city's principal gay district. This is an extremely pleasant, well-kept district with a multitude of bars, cafes, restaurants and cute little shops. The rainbow flag was resplendent everywhere. Virtually everything about the place is gay - the residents and businesses. This is what marks the area out in comparison to other gay parts of cities I have seen across the world - it is a genuine community. In England we have areas where there are a few bars, maybe the odd business like a sex shop, but that is pretty much the extent of it (apart from some bits of Brighton). In the Castro they have gay bakers and the local cinema only shows gay films. I'm not necessarily saying I want to live somewhere like this, but it is unquestionably different. There is no such thing as a gay community in London, as such. There are bars in Soho, a couple in Clapham, tons of clubs in Vauxhall and a few pubs in Earls Court, but there isn't a part of the city that has the pink magnet underneath it. We have areas where there are bars, we do not have communities.

One of the things I love about San Francisco is its size - it's very small by American city standards. This means it is virtually all navigable by foot. I have greatly enjoyed just strolling around its streets and just simply being there. It is a testament to a place that you can see the best of it by doing nothing out of the ordinary. You don't need to build a big gallery or start bungee jumping off the Golden Gate Bridge to love San Francisco. Talking of the famous bridge, I took a harbour cruise out to the bridge on Tuesday afternoon. It is beautiful, but I don't think any bridge or any harbour compares to what there is in Sydney. Once you've experienced that on a perfect summer day, there really is nothing to better it. Still, SF looked lovely from the water. Its skyline is remarkably un-intruded - there are no ugly tall buildings, quite the opposite in fact. The white houses give the place a continental flavour that clearly owes much to California's Spanish heritage.

The boat was overwhelmingly filled with Indian tourists. Virtually every single one of them boarded the vessel clutching a McDonalds takeaway, which momentarily depressed me intensely. I could not understand why the people of a country that produces some of the finest food in the world would want to eat that crap, but then I reminded myself we were, after all, in America. Visiting a country and eating its cuisine is not actually that odd.

There has always been something that has troubled me about Americans.

And, no, I'm not talking about their fondness for invading countries for private profit, or for inflicting Starbucks on the rest of the world. I want to know why they insist on calling the toilet a 'rest room'. Can anybody possibly provide me with a logical explanation for this? When was the last time you heard somebody say they were going to get 40 winks and have a lie down in the urinal? There are many things a toilet area can be used for, but I would like to say categorically that 'resting' is not one of them. I would therefore respectfully ask the Americans to stop abusing the English language and refer to the place they go to shit, piss, take drugs, have sex or whatever in a way that accurately describes its function. Thanks.

Sunday was an improvement on Saturday - I actually made it out of bed by 3pm. I ventured up to the North Beach area of the city, which has a fantastic Italian quarter. After a lovely meal of pasta, olives, bread and Merlot, I headed back to the hotel determined to get an early night and resist the temptation of another visit to this city's numerous attractions. A few hours later I was in a club.

Bugger.

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.

The 13-hour Qantas flight from Sydney to San Francisco was easily the longest uninterrupted one I had ever experienced.

I don't know if it's because I'm now used to travelling or not, but the time passed away quite comfortably. At the end of the day, if you take away the fact you can't move very much, the time on long distance flights invariably involves the consumption of free food and alcohol, reading books/magazines and watching films. There are worse ways to spend a day.

It was during the flight that I had to fill in a form which waives my need for a visa (something us Brits may no longer enjoy soon because of fears extreme Islamists within the Pakistani community could use it to gain entry to the US). The form had the usual stupid questions you get on any boarding card, such as enquiries about whether or not I was a terrorist who molests children. One particular question stood out on this form, however, and actually made me laugh out loud. I had to cross a box next to 'yes' or 'no' in response to being asked if I was a Nazi war criminal. For crying out loud, I know this is a technical procedure but I still found it absurd to be asked whether or not I had committed atrocities during a war that finished 32 years before I was even born. I briefly considered putting a cross in the 'yes' box before realising that the Americans are not big on irony, and that they would probably see it as an admission of guilt and lock me up in Guantanamo Bay.

America's reputation for over zealous security made me a bit hesitant when we finally landed in San Francisco. It was the first time I had ever been to the US, but instead of excitement I felt a sense of trepidation upon arrival. If they feel the need to ask if I'm a Nazi war criminal, what else were they going to do? Interrogate me about where I was the day Pearl Harbour was attacked?

Fortunately my entrance into the 'land of the free' was relatively straightforward, although they did take my fingerprints and photograph me at the Immigration desk (along with everyone else, I should add). It didn't come as much of a surprise. This is the nation of pre-emptive action, of course.

San Francisco is an incredible 16 hours behind Sydney, which meant I bizarrely arrived at 10.30am on Friday 6 July having departed three hours later at 13.55 on the same day.

I did promise myself upon arrival in San Francisco to banish some of my anti-American instincts that have developed in recent years. This was my first trip to the country, and I should judge it on my own experiences and not my perceptions of George W Bush and his supporters. It is a terrible shame how Bush's policies have turned so many people against America. I remember as a kid being spellbound by anything to do with the US and dreaming of one day visiting the country. And yet here I was, having to have a quiet word with myself not to think everyone here was a right-wing bible bashing lunatic.

A shuttle bus took me to my hotel in central San Fran. After a week during which I had slept on a plane, a train, in the desert, on a sofa and in a budget motel, there was no fucking way I was checking into some low rent shit hole for my first weekend in this city - particularly after a long-haul flight. The credit card would have to take a hit. Fortunately, you get a lot more for your money in Californian hotels. I was, frankly, amazed by the deal I got. For $90 a night (£45), I had a room with a queen sized bed, wide screen plazma screen tv, free wireless internet and all the usual trimmings. The hotel itself could not have been in a more central location and had a boutique feel to it. They even provided free wine between 4pm and 6pm on Fridays and Saturdays in the lounge. Back of the net.

After a three-hour doze and a shower, I had a stroll round the centre of the city. It had a very European feel to it and I enjoyed just walking aimlessly and getting a feel for my surroundings. After a couple of hours I decided to have a beer, and so parked myself at a busy bar just off Union Square. I was pleased to discover that the drink is cheap here too - $4 for a pint. An incredible amount of baseball games were being shown on tv screens behind the bar, all of which confused me a bit because I know very little about the sport other than that you are supposed to hit the ball and run as fast as you can. A guy sat next to me made a few observations about one of the teams, which I just smiled and nodded to in the hope I wouldn't be drawn any deeper into conversation.

I headed out to a club later in the evening, but didn't last very long. The sheer amount of travelling I had done of late was creeping up on me.