New York, United States

It's hard to tell whether it was the free booze at the art gallery or the rum cocktails Simon forced upon me but the way I feel at 5am is really quite soul-destroying. Manfully I battle through and manage a few hours work before breakfast, each tap on the laptop keyboard screaming in my fragile head like nails on a blackboard.

Liz and Simon seem unscathed when we meet, youth and experience giving each immunity. I seem to be the battle-scarred veteran on this occasion. But there's no time for self-pity as there's work to be done and off we head into the blazing sunshine to meet Conor Maynard and the video shoot team.

It's 10.30am when we find them on the corner of Avenue B and 13th St in Alphabet City. They're shooting at the East Village cafe, and Simon leaps straight into action, grabbing shots of Conor and the crew as they film segments on the New York streets.

Simon's photographed Conor before so there's easy familiarity there which means we slot right in and can get plenty of great reportage for the feature without getting in the way. I chat with James and Conor's management team, and catch up with the make-up artist and stylist, hearing tales of all the promo they've been doing in Italy, France and Canada on this run. Seems the whole world is going Conor-crazy right now with screaming girls in every place they've been.

Fortunately the location for the video hasn't been revealed so we can all work un-interrupted by fandemonium, shooting a bunch of scenes and with Conor happily posing between takes for Simon to get a series of colourful portraits. Liz and I drink bitter iced cappuccinos in the cafe, doing a double-take as a Franciscan friar in full cassock wanders past the window, and manage to get our hands on one of the t-shirts the lead actress wears in the shoot. We'll get it signed by Conor on Sunday and give it away to a lucky competition winner at a future date.

After a couple of hours we take our leave as they're heading off to Brooklyn to shoot another section of the video. We arrange to meet them again at sunset on the Williamsburg Bridge to get more shots in the bag, and head back to our hotel to dump Simon's equipment.

With a few hours to kill it's time for Liz to see some more iconic parts of NYC and what better than heading for Central Park and soaking up the rays that are beating down? James had suggested hiring bikes for a couple of hours so we do just that and set off to explore the vast green oasis in the heart of Manhattan.

Unfortunately we're having too much fun to notice the one way signs so set off gaily in the wrong direction weaving our way between joggers, roller-bladers, cyclists and the odd car before realising why they're all glaring at us. But we're British and we drive on the other side of the road so there ain't nothing gonna stop us now.

Well not until the NYPD appear around the next bend at which point we all pull over so fast we almost fall off our bikes and pretend to be innocently admiring the scenery! They pass us by with suspicious gazes so we head into the interior of the park, past the vast reservoir and decide to stop for ice-creams and photos in some welcome shade. It's properly roasting by now! As we slurp away, a nun serenely wanders past in a habit and veil. Seems like there's a bizarrely monastic edge to the day.

We've worked up quite an appetite by 4pm so my suggestion of sushi for lunch is kyboshed by Simon who thinks a "dirty New York burger" is the way to go, and right by the corner of 5th Avenue and South Central Park materialises the burger bar of his dreams.

Pop Burger is a diner with a snazzy open kitchen, formica tables, Andy Warhol soup prints on the wall and a menu of deliciously naughty treats. We all opt for the Superman burger, which is billed as the ultimate in NY burger sensations with bacon, cheese, deep fried gherkins, fried red onion, tomato, lettuce and a tangy mayonnaise served in a buttery brioche. Pesto fries and onion rings top off the feast alongside a strawberry milkshake and a can of diet coke for me.

The diet coke is a vain attempt to choose a skinny option in a sea of saturated fat. There's more calories on the table before us than I've consumed in the past week, and all for bargain basement prices. The towering burger is stupendous, quite possibly the best, most indulgent slab of naughtiness we've ever tasted but by God, the portions are huge. We struggle on but are all defeated, covering the onion rings and fries with paper napkins to conceal the vast piles of deep-fried vegetables forlornly staring up at us. They end up in the garbage can, enough waste to feed a family.

It's time to leave but we're stuck in a change of shifts for the New York taxis so hailing a yellow cab on the street is almost impossible, which means we get to tick off another of Liz's 'to do' list by hopping on a subway from 51st St down to 23rd.

As we wander from the station to our hotel we see yet another be-robed individual, this time a shaven-headed Tibetan monk who proffers a little gift of a painted image of Buddha towards Simon. But his gesture is misinterpreted as a form of begging and Simon dismisses him and crosses the road, straight into the path of a speeding taxi.

Horns blaring and brakes squealing the car narrowly misses both him and me, giving us both a fright. "I shoulda taken that card," breathes Simon, "perhaps the monk was trying to save me! That's why we keep seeing these people!!"

I point out that Simon is waaaaay past saving, but we tread gingerly on the remaining crossings and heave a sigh of relief when we make it back to the hotel in one piece. Retiring to our rooms I fire up the laptop and crack on with some work while both Simon and Liz have a siesta, all due to meet in an hour downstairs.

80 minutes later there's still no sign of Simon, who has managed to set his alarm for the wrong time and is still fast asleep. "Wakey wakey!!" I yell down the phone to him, "time to take some photos." And down he stumbles to meet Liz and me in the lobby

The cab drives us over the Williamsburg Bridge to Brooklyn and deposits us at the entrance to the pedestrian walkway where after 15 minutes Conor and the crew appear. We all traipse along the bridge, above the traffic and trains that rumble below us, peering at the Manhattan skyline through the iron grilles that keep us from a long fall into the Hudson River, 200 ft down.

The crew set up and film Conor, as Simon gets more shots of him against the dusky horizon. After 90 minutes they call it a day and wrap up, ready for a long shoot tomorrow where we'll join them in the afternoon. "Bring hats and suncream," warns James. "It's going to be scorching and there's no shade where we're filming".

By now I'm knackered and starting to fade but we have a dinner engagement with my old friend and colleague Jamie who I've not see in two years so we hotfoot it back into Manhattan and up to 42nd St where she's booked us into a posh restaurant called Sinigual which serves contemporary Mexican cuisine.

We arrive first and Liz opens the menu to see an extensive tequila list right in front of her. Aargh - I can't think of anything worse! Little soft tacos are brought to the table along with some salsa and a couple of bottles of Corona so I have a sip but realise I have little appetite for beer and after the burger massacre this afternoon don't feel particularly hungry either.

Jamie soon appears and we have a great chat, catching up on all her news; new house, new job, new nephew, new lease of life. It's great to hear how happy she is and to cap it all, the two final places at our table are taken by her boss Scott and his daughter Christina.

Scott runs a firm that develops foam for industrial usage but his new discovery is quite revolutionary; a foam that absorbs all forms of contamination from water, creating an ecological miracle. He's been down to the BP oil spill in the Gulf of Mexico and over to the Costa Concordia to utilise this foam to prevent catastrophes and Jamie is now running his PR campaigns.

Scott and Simon hit it off immediately and soon Scott orders appetisers for the table including a vast bowl of guacamole, whilst regaling us with evangelical fervour about his adventures in foam, in amongst professing love for Led Zeppelin at frequent intervals. "There's not a problem that can't be solved by listening to 'Kashmir'," he proclaims.

I order a main course of Carnitas Yucatan which is slow roasted citrus pork, habanero red onions, red and black beans, cilantro (coriander) rice and avocado relish, but when it comes my eyelids are drooping and my stomach resisting and it sits uneaten alongside my half-drunk beer.

Scott insists on paying for everyone's meal and then tries to persuade me to head on with him to a cigar emporium called Club Macunudo, but I refuse, insisting that I need my bed. Liz and Simon however are seduced by his charms and so I take my leave of them all, saying a heartfelt adieu to Jamie, before floating down the sixteen blocks or so to my hotel.

The tiredness and jetlag are like an out of body experience, elevating and insulating me above the Friday night throng that fill every bar and restaurant I pass, and the drunken street-walkers hanging outside liquor stores hassling more grounded souls for a dollar to get a beer. I seem invisible and ethereal as I glide silently towards bed, asleep before the midnight hour.

It's the best choice I could have made. The following day I learn that "the just one drink" Scott had suggested had turned into a marathon session with Liz and Simon finally getting back after 4am having drunk whiskey and smoked huge, fat, expensive cigars with Scott all around Manhattan.

But what a gent - he'd paid for everything and shown them a fabulous time. The tiny stirring of envy at their adventures is rapidly outweighed by my relief at a clear head and rested body upon seeing the pair of them.

Intoxication and inhalation have taken their toll and I am the shining light of righteousness amongst their debauchery. And it's not often I can say that!