News team... ASSEMBLE!!!!

IT SEEMS that man Andy Warhol was on the money when he asked the question: “Does life imitate art, or does art imitate life?”

I’ve pondered that question a few times in the last eight weeks since starting work as an anchorman in San Diego.

Of course, when I mentioned my new job role out here my friends, acquaintances and former colleagues – naturally – laughed and joked… “anchorman”, “Ron Burgundy”, “Stay Classy San Diego” etc etc.

In two months I’ve had much of the film’s script shouted/texted/emailed at me.

I laugh as much as the next person, so it seems only natural to write about it all.

Finding myself living and working in this strange new world, I can’t help but try and relate to what I know about the city – thanks largely to Hollywood.

A). San Diego was of course the home of Ron and his Channel 4 News Team.

B). Much of the film, Anchorman, was shot here, including the iconic “BAAAAAAXTER!!!!” scene on Coronado Bridge.

"Well guess what... now this is happening..."

C). ‘San Diego’ translates to a “whale’s vagina”.

No wait… one of those is clearly wrong.

In getting to know the city I’ve actually been amazed to learn about how much of Anchorman's story imitates life here in America’s ‘Finest City’.

For instance, San Diego Zoo DOES have a ‘Panda Watch’ as highlighted in the movie.

'Panda Watch'

This week U-T TV used the footage of the amazing water-skiing squirrel as featured in the movie.

And comically, San Diego does have a crazy abundance of television news networks.

You remember the fight scene in the movie? The scene which involved a stupid amount of news crews?

While I haven’t seen a real fight between the networks here, it’s fair to say each and every one is fighting for the position of the city’s top news channel – including my very own U-T TV.

I’m from a UK city about a tenth of the size of San Diego.

On a typical high-profile news story there you’d probably see reporters from two newspapers, a couple of photographers from a newspaper and/or an agency, one or two radio stations, and no more than two television news networks.

Here, U-T San Diego is the only newspaper in the city, so on a typical news story you’re only likely to find one newspaper reporter and one photographer.

I’m yet to meet a radio news team on a job but – I kid you not – if a press event is called there will be at least six or seven television news channels represented – all covering the same thing for the same San Diego audience.

It’s a TV media circus and I lose count of the number of stations.

Media scrum

From what I’ve learned so far, there is Channel 5, Channel 6, Channel 7, Channel 8, Channel 9, and Channel 10 - and numerous others, depending on what story is breaking.

Of course each and every one claims to be the ‘local source’ and ‘leader’ in offering breaking news.

I can’t keep up with the number of networks which operate here in this county.

Attending these jobs and seeing the mass television media presence, I can’t help but laugh.

Last week the scene of a burst water main in the city resembled a scene from the Cannes Film Festival.

I actually heard a resident warn her friend, “don’t go north, you’ll get filmed…”.

When the mayor of San Diego called a press briefing at Balboa Park earlier on last week, he wore so many TV radio microphones on his shirt he looked like a human cyborg.

These types of scenes make me laugh each and every time.

And they remind me so much of the ‘fight’ scene in Anchorman.

You could argue that I’m biased, but in terms of presence and appreciation among typical San Diegans, the U-T is hard to ignore given its proud history and its newspaper/web/TV offering.

Anyhow, much of the buzz about town recently has been involved with Anchorman 2.

My first reporting job for U-T TV was actually covering the Anchorman 2 casting call in the city on a Saturday morning.

"When in Rome..."

For one morning this otherwise ‘quiet’ area of the city became a haunt for every potential Burgundy wannabe on the west coast.

With the possibility of being cast as an extra in the forthcoming movie, people travelled from far and wide to be a part of it.

Some extended their Friday night’s drinking and partying by staying awake through the night to attend the casting call; some queued for the sake of it without actually knowing what the queue was for; and others came properly dressed for the occasion with some pretending to be Burgundy’s long-lost brother.

Weird.

Getting interviews with these people for U-T TV was easy as every single one of them was there for one purpose – to be on camera.

It was easy pickings and I can tell you, it was a WHOLE lot of fun.

People began queuing at 4am. By 10am there were roughly 2,500 people.

That escalated quickly...

At one bizarre moment U-T TV was stood alongside two other networks and out-of-town channels in the same spot. So naturally, we all interviewed each other for a laugh.

What did we discuss…? The sugar in our coffee? The best bad song in the last 20 years? I can’t recall. It was a surreal and funny moment nonetheless and the nature of the casting call’s movie only enhanced the comedy value.

As you can imagine each person who was selected as an ‘extra’ was sworn to secrecy.

The story goes that the extras found out the details an hour before the event via text or email.

We know one scene was shot at SeaWorld (with Ron involved in a ‘fight’ scene reportedly with a dolphin?!), and another was shot at Harbor Island, also in San Diego.

Will Ferrell at SeaWorld in San Diego

Sadly no-one could get an interview with Ron, sorry… Will Ferrell, so we’ll all have to wait and see how much of the movie is based here in San Diego when the film eventually comes out.

Ron and Veronica

One thing’s for sure though. With me in my new role, coinciding with the forthcoming release of Anchorman 2, the jokes and fun times will continue for a while yet.

Stay Classy… WORLD.

Oh, news just in... a new Anchorman 2 trailer has been released in the last few hours.
Copy the link into a web browser and take a look: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Elczv0ghqw0.


Twitter: @tristan_nichols

(Dis)count me out.

THE PROCESS of patiently waiting in line at a supermarket is something a Brit can empathize with.

It seems we’re a nation of queuers.

But here in California, despite the laid-back vibe of most folk, when it comes to queuing to buy food or ‘groceries’, Californians are impatient – at best.

So when you hear someone at the very front of a supermarket queue mutter the immortal line “wait, I’ve got a coupon for that” you know full well that people are going to be getting restless and a tad upset.

You see, having a ‘coupon’ for an item over here is like the equivalent of finding a golden Willy Wonka ticket.

To them it’s like winning the lottery. It’s the gold at the end of the rainbow. The real stuff of dreams.

That one ticket, franticly torn out of a newspaper or magazine, can bring sunshine to the darkest day. It can change lives.

To most here. Not me.

Not a 'coupon king'

And what does that ‘coupon’ get you…?

Maybe… say… $1 (£0.70) off the barbecue sauce you’ve waited your entire life to buy; $2 off that aromatherapy soap bar you’ve never intended to buy until now; or $0.25 (£0.13p) off a tin of dog food – and you don’t actually own a dog.

People hoard coupons like an ardent stamp collector… just in case one day they need to cash them in for something they’ve never really needed.

I can 'vouch' for the fact it's madness

(Dis)count me out

Ultimately, it seems that people do just that. They use the coupons to buy things they don’t actually need. And never will. Ever. Ever…

Sure, I like to save a couple of quid on groceries but jeez. Collecting these things seems to be a national past-time.

Is the whole nation like this? Or just Californians?!

A colleague of mine over here openly admitted he’s a coupon king – or to coin the phrase, a ‘couponer’.

Upon hearing a fellow co-worker had bought the Sunday paper at the weekend, another colleague ran up with a crazed look in her eyes and basically screamed “do you want your COUPONS?!”

Wow. I smirked. At least they’re giving me something to write about.

“You could have got a dollar off of that!” one person said to me recently as I paid for my shopping.

“Look, you just needed to buy this magazine…” (*cue woman thrusting said Woman’s Own-type magazine into my face).

“But… the magazine costs $2… that er, really doesn’t make any sense… does it…?”

“Oh, you’re a Australian… you don’t get it right?”

“Close… but no. And no... I clearly don’t.”

If you’re lucky, you choose a supermarket queue where the person left their coupon collection at home.

If you’re unlucky you get the person who’s waited their entire life for this one magical moment.

They even bring separate shopping bags full of collected coupons, and if they’ve forgotten something on the list which they have a voucher for, they make you wait while a member of staff goes to get it.
Is everyone stockpiling for something I don't know about? Have the coupon creators cashed in on North Korea's recent threats?

Of course, sometimes these coupons do work in your favour – such as when you’re eating out.

Sadly sometimes there’s also a reason why certain restaurants offer money off… inevitably because their food sucks ass.

I’ve actually found myself falling into the trap. Well, maybe once – but that’s all it took.

I think somewhere along the line I provided my email address to some firm which offers coupons.

Now every day my account is stocked so full of spam email I spend just as much time deleting them as I do actually reading and replying to messages from friends and family.

There are even websites dedicated to 'free printable coupons'. Some even boast 'extreme' couponing tips.

And my mailbox? My own personal MAILBOX? 

I don't check it for a couple of days and it seems I've been 'couponed'

A few days later: now this is just getting a tad silly...

Wow… are there any forests left in the world?
Can you get a coupon to save trees? I'll sign up I promise!

Home from home from home...

APPARENTLY moving house is the most stressful thing you can do.

So try moving house twice in 10 months, from one country to another (a non-English-speaking one at that), and then to another, and see how you feel.

In less than a year I’ve lived in three different countries.

I think I need to lie down and be horizontal at the very thought of what’s happened in the past few months.

Hang on. Hmmm… I don’t own a sofa in this particular country to lie down on.

Bugger.

Starting another new life in a foreign land is hard.

Finding a suitable place to live, in somewhere like San Diego is also hard – especially when you start work before you find a place to rest your weary head.

I’ve had no real reference of where’s good/not good to live.

Much to my annoyance I realized that I had to find a place near public transport as California is the only state in the world it seems that doesn’t recognize the INTERNATIONAL driving permit.

Hence why I’ve now got to re-take not only my practical, but also my theory test, 15 or so years after passing it in the first place.

Grr. Yes, the French and Spanish drive on the other side of the road too and we Brits don’t have to retake the test to drive there.

Anyhow, I digress.

If there’s one thing that you can be sure of when trying to find an apartment to rent in San Diego it’s this – you will definitely, without a doubt, deal with a bunch of bastards called ‘real’ estate agents.

‘Real?’ Don’t make me laugh.

I now hold them in the same esteem as mechanics, estate agents and insurance companies.

In my eyes they are modern-day crooks with only red tape and legislation keeping them from being on the ‘wrong’ side of the law.

In the dictionary under ‘thief’ I’m sure it should really say ‘*see real estate agent’.

I seriously thought estate agents were the only people who batted one person off another in a bid to get a more juicy commission.

It turns out these guys and girls are just the same.

Only here in SD, if they don’t think you’re serious about a property they’ve got listed (i.e. willing to fork out a charge which they’ll in-turn pocket), they won’t a). call you back; or b). reply to emails.

Some also arrange viewings, and wait until you’ve arrived for the viewing to tell you that it’s no long available – unless of course you’re willing to pay a whole YEAR’s rent up front.

The real estates agents I dealt with, excusing one or two actual decent human beings, were put simply… complete bastards.

In between working full-time I’ve had to quickly get out there and deal with these people, hoping that the next property will be marketed by someone with a genuine smile.

Without boring everyone to tears with my rants I can tell you that – amazingly – within a week, I found a comfy little apartment/condo downtown.

Since finding it, it’s been all systems go to get myself comfy and settled.

It took me six years to create my 'home' in the UK, and then with love-strewn eyes, I gave it away.

I keep telling people here that I can't recreate a 'home' in six days. These things take time.

And, I'm stupidly picky about what I want in my new home.

So that's why a few weeks after moving in to this place, I'm still eating dinner sat on the kitchen work-top.

Yes, the minimalist approach...

It's funny how boys' brains are wired up too.

I'm pretty sure a girl would first buy a bed, then things for the kitchen and sitting room, followed possibly by food for the fridge/freezer and cupboards.

Ahem.

I immediately looked online for a Fender Jaguar guitar and huge HD television. I then scanned Google for news of when the Sony PlayStation 4 is being released, and then I bought food (mainly pizzas, pasta, coffee, and a bottle of wine).

'Priorities Nichols, priorities…' I thought. Epic fail.

Huge TV purchase (so big that I couldn't actually fit in the car with it)... check!

"What are you going to sleep on? A few pizzas and a bag of oven chips?!" asked a colleague and friend.

Good question. Thankfully another friend stepped in with the offer of an inflatable - and as I found out in the night - deflatable mattress.

Ten days after I got the keys, the world’s most friendly apartment complex security guard (that’s what he’s officially known as now) took me back to Tijuana to pick up mine, and Jacky’s, bed. (Before you ask she has another one!)

Bringing it over the border was fun I can tell you.

Border patrol officer: “What’s this sir?”

“Er… is this, a trick question? Does it not look like a bed, and… mattress?”

Cue poker game faces followed by…

“Would you mind pulling over for a secondary inspection sir?”

Yes, they’re thorough (and quite rightly too I might add!)

So yes, I have a bed. Yay me. Oh sleep filled nights how I’ve missed you.

Of course having a bed was one thing.

Having, um, stuff, was another.

Best go buy 'real' food shopping at some point eh? Aka not frozen pizza

Jacks came over for the weekend and I offered to ‘make’ dinner - of course, not realizing at first that all my kitchen utensils are 8,000 miles away in England.

No scissors to open the cellophane packaging protecting the food, no plate to put the food on, and no cutlery to eat it with in any case.

Going to a shop to ask for a single piece of cutlery was also highly amusing, if a tad embarrassing.

You see, as I've found out in the last 10 months, the English accent is often misplaced or misheard - even when it's the native language.

So when I walk into a shop, with a facial expression boasting strains of seriousness, hunger and desperation, and say simply: "Hi... I really need a fork..." you can probably work out what the shocked supermarket staff member thought I said.

In the end Jacks and I bought and ate pre-cooked chicken with our fingers, while sitting on the kitchen work-top using plastic carrier bags for plates.

Hardly fine-dining but it did the job. And it created a memory.

My first ever trip to Ikea a couple of weeks ago resulted in a near mental breakdown on my part. Wow, Ikea really is a clusterf*ck isn't it?!

I had to seriously psyche myself up for the second visit – and I finally bought a few random bits like a potato masher, (really cool) knife, waste paper bin (for the bathroom...?), and a toilet brush.

Epic fail again.

Eventually I went back with a real vengeance and bought just about everything a man living by himself needs. No plants, nothing pretty, a clock, mainly just necessities – like a bottle opener.

Cheers

T

That's entertainment...

“SOMETHING nice for your lady...?” the make-up shop assistant asked with a genuinely pleasant and helpful smile on her face.

“Um... no.  You see, well, er... I’m on TV... and I’ve been told to get make-up... for, well... me...”

I don’t think I need to describe anymore how weird and awkward this moment was.

I’m pretty sure Macy’s doesn’t usually see many men asking for make-up. Let alone English ones.

“You’re on TV now, so you need make-up,” my producer told me last week.

“You’ll look shiny under the studio lights, go and buy make-up,”

So there I was, on the bosses orders, visiting Macy’s in downtown San Diego to get some sort of the foundationy, blushery, concealery stuff. Whatever you call it.

“Can you make me less, um... shiny?” was my plea to the young shop worker.

“Sure,” she replied.

She then began talking in some strange foreign language that only girls understand, mentioning things like ‘tones’, ‘skin’ and ‘shades’.  I just nodded politely like I knew what she was talking about.

Jacks, at this point, was no help at all – unless of course I wanted my very own hysterical audience for this production.

I sat down in the make-up chair feeling the way you do when you visit the dentist – unsure, apprehensive, and definitely out of my comfort zone.

The shop worker left us for a moment to get kitted out, and Jacks and I discussed what I would need.

I’ll never forget the next 10 minutes of my life. The girl returned and began ‘painting’ my face with so many different shades I looked like I’d had a very VERY bad experience on a sun bed.

“What do you think? Which one is better,” she eventually asked handing me a small circular mirror.

“I think I want to crawl up into a ball and die,” is what I wanted to reply.

But, being polite, I smiled, looked at Jacks, and diverted the question to her instead.

“Are you likely to get a tan on our face?” the make-up girl then asked.

“Because if you are we don’t want anything too light because you’ll look weird.”

Oh dear god. More and more people then began entering the store and glancing over.

My face’s ‘shade’ quickly turned to red in embarrassment and my hands became clammy.

“You know what... that’ll do,” I said, now in a semi-mad panic.

“That one with the... er... the one that... yes the... er ....  Lancome Paris 300 Bisque mattifying silky pressed powder?! – THAT one. The translucent one!

“Sorry? Oh, do I want a brush to apply? Um... no... yes... *panic-stricken glance at Jacks...* yes!”

“And SORRY... How much?!” Wow.

Job done.

Does it feel weird to wear make up?! Hell yes.

Will I ever get used to it? Hell no.
I have to admit that I have worn it before once or twice for catwalk shows and shoots and things but NEVER on a daily basis.
It's always been applied on/for me.
I've never really taken note of how girls do it.
And I've sure as hell never gone shopping for it.

You see, once again, I have no term of reference.

Too much application and I look like the Satsuma-skinned English antiques expert and TV presenter, David Dickinson.

Too little and I look greasy.

WARNING: Too much application is bad for skin, and popularity

And how do you do this?!

Nope, haven't a clue...

And I have to put it on myself which, I can tell you, has been met with some hilarity from co-workers.

But my producer’s right, if it’s a choice of wearing this stuff and temporarily rescinding my man card, or looking like a greasy weirdo under the bright and hot lights, (yes if you didn’t realise from the above verse, I’m vain!) I know which I’d prefer.

So yes... it’s been an interesting couple of weeks.

The ‘training’ for my new job consisted of me doing my first ‘live’ in the studio.

Nothing like being thrown in the deep end eh? But it’s the best way to learn right? Sink or swim.

Within two days we established some silly habits that I have.

When reading the tele-prompter I seem to occasionally clap my hands, tap the desk in front of me, or lean my head to one side – or do all three. Why? Not sure, it’s weird.

I’m working on it, and I think it’s just down to gaining confidence in this new role.

But hey, I couldn’t do it without giving people the chance to rib me about something right?!

I’m just glad I didn’t say “sh*t” and “f*ck” live into the camera on my first day like an American anchorman did on his first day – which bizarrely happened to be the same day as I started.

Anyhow, as far as first weeks go, it's been awesome. It’s stupid amounts of fun, and we’ve got an amazingly talented and super lovely team at U-T TV.

I finally realised the meaning of the word ‘promotion’ when I opened up the paper last Sunday to see a full page picture of me staring back at myself.

Promotion

I tell you, I nearly choked on my cornflakes.

My mum’s response...? “Nice tan, or is that make-up?!”

Thanks mum.

Anyhow aside from the new career on the box, I’ve also had to deal with beginning my new life living here in San Diego.

Starting from scratch doesn’t even remotely cover it.

I felt like a Bob Dylan-type character arriving in California with nothing but a bag of clothes and a guitar.

Still, it’s all rock and roll right?

California dreaming

PINCH me I'm dreaming.
I mean, I must be... Did I really quit my job, house and life in the UK to land a Latin fiancé and a TV career in California?!

In San Diego? An ANCHORMAN in San Diego...?!
I'm sorry but that shit doesn’t happen.
Normally.
I currently find myself in the somewhat enviable position of having realized a dream.
A dream I guess I never dared to dream before.
Now, I'm not going to kiss my own ass and make out like “everything’s amazing, isn’t life great... la dee da...”
(Because everyone knows how the English hate someone who's found success and happiness), but wow... what a ride it’s been.
Today I can finally reveal the full detail of what the hell has been going on with me for the past 10 months.
As you all know I quit everything I’d known in the UK last June after meeting the beautiful Jacky.

I moved to Tijuana without even a hint of a plan, safe in the knowledge that ‘I’ had become ‘we’ (TJ team).

After two months of sitting in the house doing relatively little I dropped an email to the U-T San Diego (neighbouring San Diego’s biggest newspaper) asking if I could pop in to take a look at their set up.

The U-T had, at that time, just launched its own web and US cable television channel and as a result, fully integrated itself with web and TV.

It was something my previous employers at The Herald in Plymouth, had talked about doing but – for one reason or another – had not quite achieved.

So, out of pure curiosity, I popped over the border and visited the U-T.

And the conversation went something like this:

U-T: “So... um... remind me again why you’re here...?”

Me: “Well, see I met this Mexican girl and...”

*cue startled glance and paper shuffling.

U-T: Wait, wait, wait... hey... HEY GUYS... have you heard this? We’ve got a crazy romantic Englishman here... can we get him a job?! Do you want a job?!”

To cut a very long story short I met the U-T’s TV guys who asked if I could pop back the next day for a screen test.

I guess they must have seen something they liked because moments after the test I was offered a position.

And then came the visa application. And seven months of being in limbo.

Annoyingly everyone who has ever got a tourist visa stamp abroad thinks they are experts on immigration law and, at times, my head was spinning with conflicting information.

“You should have done this or that...”, “you should have changed lawyers...” “you don't need that visa you need this one..."
Jeez.
Okay... how about we play a game of f#ck off... and you go first.

So after seven months of providing US Immigration with everything they needed, about a month ago we finally heard that my O-1 visa application had been approved.

For a moment I was afraid that Piers Morgan’s views on US gun laws, and the resulting calls for his deportation from the US, had scuppered any plan for an Englishman ever to be shown the green light.
But thankfully not.

Three weeks ago I flew to Canada to get the visa stamp, which was an unexpected treat in itself. It also afforded itself its own hilarity.

On greeting me when checking into the Toronto hotel the guy on the front desk (who later turned out to be Argentine) said: “Ahhh... you're from Plymouth?”
Me: “Yes.”
“Aha, yes, your team is not very good...”

This man clearly knew too much about Plymouth and it’s football – or is that ‘socher’ team.

Anyway, sorry I digress... after a week in Canada I flew back to TJ, two days later I crossed over to San Diego, and a few days after that I started work officially.

“What the hell have you been doing for nine MONTHS in TJ?!” a lot of people have asked.

Well, I learned a bit of Spanish, became an expert in immigration law, got a bit of a tan, oh... and I got really good at playing Candy Crush.

So fully charged, SUPER excited, and still pinching myself that this is all actually real, I find myself sat in a downtown coffee shop having just completed my first week as a ‘show host’ at U-T TV.

Being in limbo for that length of time wasn’t good for the soul, but it just goes to show that sometimes you’ve got to leave your comfort zone to see what’s possible in life.

I mean, ME... a TV presenter?!

Crazy huh?

So now it’s a case of ‘ding ding’ round two.
I now need to source an apartment, a social security number, a car, a bank account, a phone (or is that ‘cell?’) contract or SIM, a TV, sofa, bed, other home furnishings, oh and of course a kettle... (that’s got to be easier this side of the border right?!)
Oh and I need to retake my driving test (theory and practical) because Californian state law doesn't recognize the international driving permit). Grr.

So I’m a British citizen, engaged to a Mexican girl, who is now living and working in America. Oh, and I flew to Canada to get the visa.

Officials on the Mexican/US border ask a few questions let me tell you...
We’re still working out the details of what exactly my new show will be about for U-T TV and it’s in development.

This week I’ve been finding my feet, explaining to my co-workers what the hell I mean when I’m saying things like I’m ‘cream-crackered’ (i.e. knackered... i.e. tired), and doing news reporting slots on U-T TV’s PrimeTime show.

A few members of the PrimeTime crew on set

In the next blog I’ll bring everyone up to speed with some of the crazy antics this past week has witnessed.

Where the magic happens...

Do you want to check out what The U-T San Diego and U-T TV is all about?

Those people that aren’t in the US can watch U-T TV live online by visiting http://www.utsandiego.com/tv/. Click on the ‘Watch Live’ link and you’re all set.

For now though I’m going to order another latte, breathe a little sigh, sit back in my chair, and carry on (California) dreaming.