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The projectionist arrives, the film begins. Tweedledum signals furiously and reconducts me to my seat. After an hour of people blowing each other away (or up) I leave the film to conclude itself to a sea of empty seats and sally, well-pleased, into the dazzle of the street. My pleasure is compounded by the X rated snack I buy outside; an entire squid, sliced, roasted then reconstituted section by section, on a stick. I wield this Damien Hirst-ish snack like a lollipop as I saunter down the street, through the heaving crowds and the pungent markets in search of newer and bigger and more audacious modern building. Pure, the purest happiness.

On my return to the hotel I find the usually impeccable Chinese receptionist, phone in hand, sweaty and anxious, as if in a trance, incapable of handing me my key. Are you alright? I ask. He sits transfixed; still no key. Are you sure you're OK. Finally he admits: No, I am broken hearted. My girlfriend says she
wants to be only my friend.

I visit Patpong, the trio of streets of bars, clubs, girls etc. It feels pretty sexy too but quiet in this holiday period; still the air is thick with sexual mischief. I am contented with sitting with my Singha beer and cigarette at the bar, or rather the stage where the girls in stockings and thongs and high heels strut and pout and wriggle against each other to unforgivably fusty music: Staying Alive, Brown Sugar. Cute girls too, lithe bodies, skins like satin; facts that jostle uncomfortably in the mind with stories of bonded and underage sex workers; but it is still sexy. How to deal with the discrepancy between social fact and sexual response? In the traditional way, by recourse to pity and sentimentality, (the pathos of cheap stilettos, new but already scuffed, already wobbly; the inexpertly painted toenails a few inches from my eyes, the child's face under the makeup.) Back to the hotel in an ambiguous state of mind; better Gladstone who, at least, after his descent into lowlife, strode purposefully home to self-flagellation.

Another evening, another club visit; I am clearly too early. For half an hour I sit alone, just me and 20 strutting pole dancers. I mean, even the other way round it would still be value for money.

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