It was odd, arriving back in Hong Kong after two years. I stepped off the Airport Express and joined the line for taxis. At once I was hit by forgotten sensations - but when they made themselves known, they were so familiar. Simple things: the smell of the Airport Express Terminus, the constant circulation of air conditioning and the accompanying hum, the sound of the red taxis' tyres on the road as, one by one, they pulled up and took people into the city. And how could I have not thought once, over two years, of the way the taxi doors magically swing open to greet you?

The taxi took me into the evening, through Central and Admiralty, into Wan Chai and then up onto the flyover. The harbour and the Royal Hong Kong Yacht Club fell away to my left, while on my right, a wall of sparkling skyscrapers drew closer, their water-facing sides still covered with New Year decorations, where glittering 20 metre dogs barked at Kowloon.

My flat is in Happy Valley. When I say flat, I mean serviced apartment and when I say serviced apartment, I mean serviced room. What greeted me, at about 8:30pm after I had left my details with the concierge, was a hotel room with a small kitchen tacked onto the side. The building is in Upper Happy Valley, which basically means it's a steep walk uphill from the supermarket. Having previously lived in Mid-Levels, I'd only been to Happy Valley on the occasional Wednesday, and then I limited myself to the race track, where Hong Kong gambles obsessively under flood lights whenever it can. Most of the residential area is to the south of the track and it has as much of a villagey feel as anywhere on the north side of Hong Kong island can. It's also, apparently, fairly affluent - a friend told me it was, "the Hampstead of Hong Kong." I'm not sure about that, but there are a lot of cake shops.

It was straight into work the next morning, but God bless assumed jet lag. The presumption of colleagues gave me a pleasant week to gently settle in, and, less attractively, attend to admin. A letter from my employers and HK$2000 got HSBC to start the process of opening a bank account for me. A flying visit to a corner shop got me a Hong Kong SIM card. A slightly tortuous internet search revealed my bus route to work. I had managed to dig out my old Octopus card from the recesses of a London cupboard and was delighted to discover it still in credit to the tune of HK$30. Unfortunately the same cupboard hadn't, as I thought it might, turned up my Hong Kong identity card, a micro-chipped photocard, much like the one everyone's making a fuss about in the UK. Obviously, it's worth pointing out here that Hong Kong is technically part of a dictatorial one-party state, while the UK technically is not.

An ID card in Hong Kong is vital - it's needed to do almost anything and the law says that it must be carried at all times. Luckily I had a record of my ID card number. Unluckily the cards cost almost HK$400 to replace, so after making an appointment I headed to the efficiently named Immigration Tower in Wan Chai. Applying for or renewing an ID card in Hong Kong is a protracted wade through red tape and would aptly be described as Kafkaesque if it weren't taking place in a humid sub-tropical zone where all bureaucracy, however mind-numbing, is tinged with comedy.

Upon entering Immigration Tower I headed to the busy 8th floor and joined a long queue entitled "Appointments". The queue next to us, for those lazy and inefficient enough not to have made appointments, consisted of a person strolling in every few minutes, going straight to the counter, processing his application and going away again.

I finally reached the front of the queue to be given a ticket stub with a number on it and a form to fill out, before being pointed in the direction of a waiting area. The plastic chairs were overlooked by monitors which intermittently flashed up a number. I filled out the form. After a while my number came up indicating that I should go to booth number 38. This I did, and gave the woman seated in it my form. She looked it over before energetically stamping it and waving me to another waiting area, also in the thrall of monitors. After 10 minutes or so, the monitor above my head indicated I should head to cubicle 15. Again I obeyed and found myself in an office style cubicle, seated opposite a young woman sporting thick lensed glasses. She peered at a computer, then at me. She took my ticket and asked me to put my left thumb on a small square of glass in front of me. I did, and then, in accordance with her wishes, rolled it around a bit. I did the same with my other thumb, and then saw my two thumb prints blown up on her computer screen. I felt a sad pang for home noting the tear of skin where Gladstone had attacked me over Christmas. Bloody cat.

Once my prints were taken I had to sit on a small stool in the corner of the cubicle, like a dunce, and stare into a lens. One tap on the speccy woman's Enter key, and my image was staring back. She asked me if the picture was OK. I told her it wouldn't get any better and she produced a print out, which included the snapshot. This was to be my temporary ID card. I was then directed to a third waiting area, where I alternated between admiring my temporary "card" and checking the obligatory monitor. It finally flashed my number - another cubicle, another bureaucrat, this time wearing quasi-military uniform. Rather curtly, he demanded the fee for the replacement card. I paid him. Then, unexpectedly, I was free to go. At least until tomorrow, when, as the temporary card reliably informs me, my new ID will be ready to collect at Immigration Tower.

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The other Saturday afternoon I put on my suit. Just the jacket and trousers - none of the trimmings. Underneath, I wore a dark grey M&S shirt, with a pair of trainers poking out below the trousers. No tie, no stiff collared shirt, no cufflinks, no polished squeaky shoes. But I was wearing a suit nonetheless and felt a bit smart.

I had spent the previous 48 hours ticking boxes on a protracted To Do list. At work, I cleared my desk, tying up loose ends and palming off various files to less than appreciative colleagues. I got my hair cut (badly) and packed a large bag of possessions, giving it to a man who came calling on Friday morning. He put it in the boot of his car. I haven't seen it since, but am still optimistic that somehow it'll make the journey halfway across the world to my side.

Two of my suits were with that elusive bag. With the third hanging off my shoulders, I headed to Heathrow, accompanied by my better (in every way) half. Sadly, she was only coming as far as Terminal 1. My flight was due to leave at 10:20pm. It was 7:40pm and there was no queue at check-in, so I swaggered up to the desk, pleased with my earliness. This flight wouldn't be so bad. Not only would I be relaxing in "World Traveller Plus" but, seeing as I was this early, I'd also be able to bag a window seat. I was looking fairly smart too. I hadn't worn the suit to be upgraded - I just didn't want it creasing in my bag - but if it got me into Business Class, that would bode well for this whole trip, the wisdom of which I was starting to seriously doubt. I felt lucky.

I thrust the bag onto the conveyor belt, slapped my passport on the desk, and told the check-in attendant that I was flying to Hong Kong at 10:20. She slowly lifted her head, weighed down as it was by multiple layers of foundation, eye liner, lip gloss and blusher. This make-up mask expertly conveyed the image of the aging stewardess, looked over by multiple pilots and shortly destined to be waving passengers onto a big orange plane (...can you see where this is going?). Without a dreg of warmth, let alone charm, she dragged my passport towards her and started listlessly tapping away at the keyboard.

"Please could I have a window seat?" I smiled.

"I'll just see, sir. It's a very busy flight tonight": her best officious receptionist voice.

She spoke for a while on the phone. She replaced the receiver, tapped on the keyboard a bit more and pushed a boarding card towards me.

"Right," she said, in the same soulless monotone. "You've been downgraded for this flight sir. Boarding gate 52."

Downgraded.

What the fuck?

I looked at the boarding card. Involuntary downgrade. In an aisle seat.

13 hours to Hong Kong in economy. During a night flight. How dare she try and act as though this was the most normal thing in the world - actually, as though it was more than I deserved? Doesn't she, or anyone in British Airways, care that the full fare has been paid (yes, yes, not by me, but let's not dwell on that at the moment)? Doesn't anyone care that I'm going to have to fold my 6 feet and two inches in to a miniature metal frame loosely covered by some mite ridden canvas? She didn't apologise, she barely explained - she only snapped at me for getting angry. Of course: no-one has any rights in an airport because everyone's so bloody sensitive. You can't even raise an eyebrow in dissent, without the risk of a trigger happy policeman pushing you up against a wall, his assault rifle in your face and his eyes twinkling with the memory of Stockwell.

"Poor Rob," you may be thinking, your mind oozing with sarcasm, "he had to travel cattle class, how will his delicate soul cope? And he's not that bloody tall."

To that, I say, fuck you. Fuck you, fuck the bitch at the check in desk, fuck the piss smelling old gimmer from the ground staff who informed me that compensation was a measly £75 presented in the form of a cash card (have you ever tried getting £5 from a cash machine? Fuck 'em) and most of all, fuck British Airways, who overbook their flights and downgrade decent punters not because they're last in the queue to check in, not because they've chosen to take a downgrade for a decent pecuniary reward, not because they look like shabby cunts (you should have seen some of the smug bastards in World Traveller Plus) but because they're not members of the manipulative BA air miles club or other such exploitative scheme, designed to keep travellers away from the better airlines. Proper fucking bastards.

Although, having said that, the flight wasn't too bad.

I ended up sitting at the front of economy, and I could stretch my legs under the curtain in front, giving my feet a taste of the high life. At least until, irritated by the constant bumping of my seat by the passenger behind, I turned to see a gargantuan German freak trying to make himself comfortable. I had to swap with him: I felt too guilty not to - he really was huge, about 6 foot 5. So I moved seat and tucked myself into a little gap for 13 hours, dozed for about 5 minutes, and suddenly I was on the Airport Express, heading to Hong Kong island.

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I was planning to break my lengthy silence with a riveting travelogue, told with the kind of witty self-deprecation that would make Michael Palin and Clive James give up and go home without so much as an ironic gurn at the camera. Unfortunately, that's proved difficult. Two reasons: for a start, instead of effortlessly conjuring up tales to rival those of Patrick Leigh-Fermor, over the "festive period" I remained slumped in an armchair eating Stilton and trying to work out which televised fragrance advertisement was the most pretentious. Secondly, "witty self-deprecation" and doing anything "effortlessly" do not come naturally (is that tautologous?). Oh, and my laptop's fucked, but that's another story.

So as the perfume ads give way for chirpy chav-friendly invitations to furniture warehouse sales, I'm back at work. No time to do my foreign adventures justice. But just enough time to comment on the spooky goings on in my neighbourhood.

Macrobiotic drudge Chris Martin and his marginally more interesting wife, Gwyneth Paltrow, have decided that their house is full of bad energy. Apparently, this is to blame for Gwyneth's difficult second pregnancy (I suspect it's more to do with eating seeds and drinking fucking Yakult all the time). The rumours are that they're getting some followers of Kabbalah in to do some chanting and scare away the ghosts.

I happen to live opposite the Paltrow-Martins. The only bad energy I've sensed in the area is the bloody prices charged by the gas supplier. OK, so standing staring at their house for hours on end, tapping gently on their windows and flinging excrement into their front yard in the middle of the night isn't the kind of thing that's going convince Mr and Mrs P-M that the neighbourhood is bubbling with good energy. And perhaps it was wrong to repeatedly order a Meat Feast Pizza on their behalf. But they still live in a massive 3.5m pound town house in Belsize Park. It's gated off from the rest of the street and covered in CCTV cameras. If you can't get good energy in that haven of luxury, getting a handful of Kabbalists to chant dreary psalms in the sitting room is unlikely to make a difference. Besides, if Chris Martin spends time rehearsing at home, any ghost loitering in the airing cupboard is going to be familiar with dirgy chanting.

I think the only way to ensure good energy is returned to their house is for them to invite all their neighbours around for a massive celeb-heavy party. For the avoidance of doubt, that includes the neighbours opposite as well as next door to them. And tonight I'm going to climb into their garden and leave a little note in a pentangle arranged out of twigs, straw and human hair, telling them to do just that.

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Just a quick one, but I want to get some kind of comment in before the tedious stop-it-now-it's-getting-boring wait for the Broccoli mafia to announce which actor will "don the tuxedo" (copyright all lazy showbiz hacks) ends. And according to the BBC, the announcement might be made tomorrow.

Gosh, I can barely piss straight with excitement.

But I can, although I would have been all over the place if they'd cast the new Bond within a reasonable period of time. As it is, with the tiresome speculation going on for almost a year, this just seems like an overcooked publicity exercise.

However, the end is in sight. And, yes, the toilet seat is getting sprinkled a bit. But partly with nerves as well as excitement. I'm worried about the recent rumours that suggest the filmmakers are taking the world's best film franchise, strapping it to a table and burning a laser beam right up its jaffas.

No Q? No gadgets? Bond aged 28? Oh sod off. The last time they tried this kind of reinvention the franchise spluttered to a six year halt and fed Timothy Dalton's career to the sharks. Looney Tunes: Back in Action? Oh, Tim.

The thing is, Dalton was a brilliant Bond. The Living Daylights is a great film. Back then the filmakers were trying to make Bond a bit more realistic, with a harder edge - and in general it didn't go down well. But even during that experiment, Bond was still in his forties and had a few toys to play with. So the choice to stray even further away from the successful and comforting formula is worrying. (Gold)fingers crossed.

The new man can't be any worse than Pierce Brosnan, the preening prince of punir. Straight out of the jumpers page of the Freeman's catalogue he squinted his way through two shit films, one good one and one which I can't work out whether I like or not, all the way ripping off the four previous Eon Bonds. His so called emotional side he nicked off Tim. His attempts at humour and charm he half-inched from Sir Rog. His affected swagger and style was from Connery and his complete shitness he took wholesale from Lazenby. That's a bit unfair actually. George Lazenby was quite good.

Anyway that transatlantic fucker's gone now. The favourite for the job is Daniel Craig. He's got my vote - certainly he's the best actor in the running and he looks the part as well (or he would with a bit of boot polish rubbed into his hair). I think he would be an excellent James Bond. Otherwise there's Clive Owen. I used to think he'd be good, until I saw him act. Maybe I'm wrong, but I don't think that when Albion is threatened and King Arthur majestically returns to defend the realm he'll speak in a Kermit the Frog-esque monotone. Also some children called Sam Worthington and Henry Cavill are in the running. And the less said about Jude Law, the better, but suffice to say, if the producers of Casino Royale want a smug balding twat in the role they'd do better to ask back Sean Connery.

One thing's for sure. You can guarantee that whoever is picked to be the Bond girl will give interviews saying, "my character's different from all other Bond girls, she's Bond's equal and more assertive". Yeah, whatever love - you'll proceed to spend two hours stuck on a ledge in your bikini screaming, "James, James, help me James", before getting nailed by 007 and caught mid-coitus by M/Q/Thatcher/The Queen/Pope Benedict XVI etc.

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September again, a month with the potential to fling you into a mortar and, with its autumnal pestle, grimly powderise you. Then drive a steamroller over your remains.

Yep, September grinds me down. With the exception of last year's glorious ninth month, it brings the end of any hopes for summer, unwelcome memories of new school years (disinfected classrooms and being forced to play football in arctic storms) and getting out of bed and leaving work when it's dark.

And I haven't done much with September this year, except work and worry about work. There have, however, been a couple of recent noteworthy events.

Last week Matt, Jerry and I went to Zigfrid in Hoxton and saw Lou Rhodes doing her thing. At the risk of sounding like a broken record (and not a very good one at that, certainly not Beloved One by Lou Rhodes) it was great. My six month Guinness hiatus came to a malty end and by the time the support (excellent acoustic sets by Ed Laurie and ex-Lamber Oddur Mar Runnarson) had ended I was half-cut. Guinness or no Guinness, the atmosphere there was relaxed and ultra friendly. I found myself chatting to various people, all of whom enthusiastically chatted back. It's so unusual in London to be at a gig (or out anywhere) and for there to be a complete absence of aggression. Perhaps encouraged by this, after spotting Lou packing away and with the desire to right past wrongs, I trotted over.

"Lou," I smiled. "My name's Rob. I'd just like to say how much I enjoyed your music this evening."

Her eyes sparkled with delight. "I recognise you", she purred. "I've noticed you at some Lamb gigs. I once saw you in the Tipi field at Glastonbury, and felt so sad when you didn't come and speak to me. And then I saw you again at this year's Glastonbury. You seemed so ill, all I wanted to do was abandon the gig and nurse you back to health. But unfortunately that would have meant breaking my deal to perform there, and Michael Eavis is a real fucker when it comes to breach of contractual obligations."

"Tell me about it," I said archly. "What you need is a clause in there allowing you to forgo a performance on compassionate grounds. I'll happily draft one for you. Here's my business card."

She took it coyly. After a moment she said, "All this talk of the niceties of legal drafting makes me go weak at the knees. I don't want your office address. Take me to your home, now."

Actually, I can't quite vouch for the above being a verbatim transcript of our conversation. I'm having trouble remembering. I suspect the following may be more accurate:

Me: "Bleurggh, um, Lou, how the fahk are you you were fuurrrrkin great man."
Her [eyes sparkling with terror]: "Thank you."
Me: "Buerouhgg jegh hergl I love Lamnalldatshit and I think that...um...all reeeeeeallly good...great...urm...hfoipn."
Her: "..."
Me: "I'm ganna come again, aaand again yes I aam. Bye, great chhat."

Ah well.

The following evening I went to another gig, JJ72 again, in the Islington Academy. The requisite aggression was there this time, mainly from me getting pissed off with the gig goers who insist on barging to the front and then spend the entire gig either (a) standing there like one of those wanky out of work actors in Covent Garden pretending to be a statue or (b) chatting loudly all the way through. One such talky twat put me off-side from the start by braying away to some midget woman he was obviously trying to pull.

"Yeah, they were quite big about five years ago, they're a bit crap actually, middle of the road." Could have been worse I suppose. He could have said they sounded like Placebo.

I enjoyed the gig and was pleasantly surprised by the support, a band called Red Organ Serpent Sound. I wasn't feeling particularly optimistic when they strolled to their instruments, all face paint and bowler hats. The lead singer then bounded on stage. He was wearing what appeared to be a red sock over his head and large white rimmed dark glasses. A top hat was rammed down firmly on the sock. He was also clad in a leotard, and wore a red boxing glove on his left hand. In fact he looked a bit like this. At first, as the guitars screamed into action I worried that this might be a death metal/performance art hybrid. But it was fun, highly charged, good music. Kraftwerk inspired lyrics from a song called Autobahn - "Autobahn, autobahn...DAS AUTOBAHN". I think they probably all went to art school together.

This week I decided to go upmarket, and accompanied my parents to the Ritz for afternoon tea, after starving myself. I was a little disappointed in that it reminded me of the Egyptian Hall at Harrods, the columns dripping with gold leaf while stucco lions roared down from the ceiling. Also, our fellow tea takers were hardly what I would have expected (something out of Agatha Christie perhaps) although at least their hoop earrings went with the décor. But the service was impeccable, the tea perfect and the sandwiches and scones just kept coming. I left feeling quite sick, exactly as planned.

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