New York, United States

Here comes the rain again, its nightmarish rhythm drumming on the roof like a bad dream – which is exactly what I'm having when I wake with a jolt at 4.38am, thinking I've left all my belongings in the back of a taxi while I stand abandoned in some crazy Chinese city. Amazing what the brain can do...

I'm heading off to New York in a few short hours but this time next week I'll be on another plane bound for Shanghai. Pre-trip anxiety must be coursing through my veins, mixing up anticipation of the impending taxi arrival with next week’s Far Eastern jaunt. The torrential rain adds a further dimension as plans for the NYC visit are changing with every day due to the similarly unsettled weather across the Atlantic.

Our early morning flight to NYC was to ensure we arrived in time to cover the videoshoot this afternoon for one of our artists, which is due to end Friday, with Saturday morning planned for us to shoot a front cover for a teen magazine. But rain has stopped play meaning the videoshoot has been pushed back a day with our cover shoot now needing to be done on Sunday before we race to the airport for our flight home.

With no need for us now to arrive in NYC on the earliest flight, but too late to change the booking, I’m cursing the ungodly start as I look out of our kitchen window in the dawn light to watch rain cascading down. I could have had another few hours in bed. But as the cab drives through London, the tiredness lifts and by the time I meet Simon and Liz, my travel companions, I’m starting to look forward to being back in New York after almost two years.

We grab a bite of breakfast and then some last minute shopping – a guidebook to Shanghai for me, some Dolce & Gabbana sunglasses for Simon – before boarding our brand new Virgin Atlantic plane. They’ve given it quite a spruce up with roomier seats in the back and touch-screen TVs, even taking the trouble to spray-tan one of the cabin crew a fabulous shade of orange.

PJay, as his name tag reveals, is quite something, with his shaved eyebrows and nuclear skin tone, but it’s his colleague Emily who really makes an impression. Obviously something she ate this morning didn’t agree with her as she’s locked in the loo for ages before we take off and when she shuffles out looking rather embarrassed the rows around the cubicle look like they’ve been gassed. Poor love. Mind you, at least she’s still smiling! The rictus grin of cabin crew intact...

The flight passes quickly enough. Simon and I sit together and natter like old friends. We did a trip to Madrid together almost ten years ago with a Belgian trance band that was far too much fun, so there’s a lot of catching up to be done. After much hilarity we both decide to watch the film ‘Shame’, knowing that there’s a “bit of raunch” involved. Good Lord! The old lady on the other side of Simon doesn’t know where to look as some incredibly explicit sex scenes play out before us. You wouldn’t get that kind of thing on British Airways. It’s bloody marvellous!

‘The Artist’ and ‘The Muppets’ complete the movie marathon and we’re landing at JFK in no time, whisked through immigration faster than I can ever recall and at our hotel on 3rd Avenue and 24th Street by 2pm. With the videoshoot postponed due to bad weather, we now have an afternoon in Manhattan to ourselves. And whaddya know, the rain’s cleared up and there’s blue skies and sunshine.

It’s Liz’s first time in NYC so we decide to do a little walk down through Union Square to Greenwich Village to grab some lunch, before a return to our bijou hotel – The Marcel at Gramercy – a siesta, and then a meeting with management and James, the video commissioner, to make plans for tomorrow.

But best laid plans can be derailed, and a quick phone call establishes there’s no meeting tonight as they’re all tied up doing promo, so we’re footloose and fancy free until tomorrow morning. It’s at this point that we spot the Fat Cat Bar on Bleecker Street and decide a little drink wouldn’t go amiss. While Simon and I go for a local lager, Liz surprises us both by ordering a Jameson’s whiskey which she knocks back in double-time. You go, girl!

We grab a plate of nachos at a Mexican restaurant called Bamboleo, and while Simon and Liz tuck into a glass of sangria I clear the decks of essential work. Out on the street various phonecalls are made to managers, colleagues and a couple of journalists, emails bashed out and my inbox cleared of pressing matters, before I go back to the table to find empty glasses and time to move on.

We head on down to Soho, pointing out sights to Liz as we go. She’s loving every second, soaking up the vibes of New York with the unabashed glee of a first time visitor. It’s such an amazing city and her enthusiasm combined with a little jetlag means we’re all having a wonderful time. Simon spots another bar and declares it’s his round so in we go. Liz hits the tequila while Simon orders Dark & Stormy rum cocktails for us both.

Soon it’s 7pm and any intention of siestas, showers and changing out of our travel clothes for something a little more chi-chi have long since gone out of the window. We’ve got a call time for the morning so have work all planned out so decide to carry on the guided tour, passing a ‘happening’ at an art gallery on our way. “Come on, let’s go in,” suggests Simon with a wicked grin.

Inside the great and good of New York’s art society are gathered, along with a huge chunk of pretentious Hoxton-style hipsters, all umm-ing and ahh-ing over the paintings and sculptures on display. Snatched conversations about “abstraction” and “surrealist motivation” float past as we giggle at what looks like a sixth-form art project from a noted Ukranian artist. No-one seems to notice we haven’t been invited, despite Liz looking at all the dressed-up fashionistas and proclaiming, “But I’m still wearing my Easyjet clothes!”, and then we realise, joy of joys, there’s a free bar.

Well, three jet-lagged English people and free booze is a dangerous combination. It may be cheap white wine that tastes of paint stripper but we dive straight in and are soon wandering around holding court and chatting to the assembled throng as though we are of vast importance. Around us are men with ridiculous moustaches, women in red leather dresses with zips up to their nipples, a-symmetric haircuts everywhere we look, heavy-framed glasses and amazing plastic surgery, buttoned-up blazers and art critics making high-minded statements. And then there’s us.

By now, Simon is deep in conversation with a curator, chatting her up with rock-star charm and persuading her that he really does want to pay $7000 for an abominable piece of tat hanging on the wall. Meanwhile Liz and I are chin-stroking away and indulging in the pretentious wankery going on around us while trying to keep a straight face. Photographers prowl the gallery getting photos for the society pages of the New York papers and one comes up to us to take our pic, thinking we must be important.

We happily pose and then give our names. Somehow or other the words, William Luff, don’t seem to emerge from my mouth. Instead I announce proudly that I am Rumpol De Vere, and then proceed to spell it for the photographer to ensure that I’m correctly credited in tomorrow’s New York Times. Oh dear, time to leave.

Simon by now has an unlit cigarette clamped in his mouth to the consternation of security and is swaggering like a young Keith Richards, expensive sunglasses perched on his head and lascivious banter flying around. We decide a swift exit is in order before having to stump up the $7000 so sneak outside, but he’s spotted by a woman who’s besotted by his wiles. I say woman, she has the build of a Russian shotputter and more facial hair than a ZZ Top convention. Grabbing him as we leave she clasps him in a bearhug, groping his buttocks with hands that could crush cars.

“I’ve been assaulted,” declares our hapless photographer as he runs towards us, Liz and I helpless with hysteria on the pavement outside. “Quick, let’s go”, and off we race, roaring with laughter and wondering what on earth the New York glitterati made of three random Brits invading their event, and drinking their bar dry.

It’s almost 10pm and we decide that we really should have some food, the nachos a distant memory, so find a restaurant, Boqueria, and order a few plates of tapas. Hysteria has been replaced by hiccups and I’m soon in pain, my diaphragm spasming and little yelps emerging to the amusement of the others. There’s no sign of a cab as we stand in the street hailing any passing vehicle to get us back to our hotel. Lord knows why they won’t stop for a dissolute photographer, a merry picture editor and a PR who looks like he’s having an epileptic fit. Eventually we hitch a ride and collapse into bed, a full 24 hours after I awoke from my Chinese, rain-lashed nightmare.

What a start to our trip....