A quick note to remind myself I still exist. I've just returned from a colourful and fascinating holiday (more about which soon), but now I'm once again imprisoned in the mental and physical misery of the glass box where I have engage myself in frivolities in order to remain sane.

In this spirit, this site is a disturbing introduction to the shabby world of celebrity lookalikes, demonstrating what happens to those poor fools who take that 'all my mates reckon I'm a dead ringer for Robbie Williams' syndrome a little too seriously. As well as some of these 'artists' being shockingly unconvincing (see, for example, Ant & Dec) - but oddly compelling - the site raises some fairly searching questions. Such as, how much demand is there really for a Bella Emberg lookalike (etc)?

And from that topic, where else to go but to another tedious entrant into the gallery of miscreants cursed with my name?



This saucy fellow was a shipmate on the USS Nassau, a battleship, during the Second World War.

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Kung Hei Fat Choy!

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Two vaguely interesting (for me) stories on Roll on Friday this week. The first of these offers further confirmation that, at whichever firm an aspiring solicitor trains, being used as a useful strategic pawn (whether it be in a legal capacity, a marketing capacity or a 'verbal-punch-bag-allowing-a-superior-to-vent-his-frustrations-at-his-home-life capacity) with obligatory humiliating and degrading results is the norm. I suppose this type of treatment should be looked at as pre-emptive punishment for a life of being qualified to practice law.

The second concerns more abused employees - this time in a department store. In Austria, the website reports, shop-workers are demanding that they be compensated for the 'psychological terror' of having to listen to Christmas music throughout their working day. Apparently, this treatment has left the workers 'aggressive and confrontational', and makes them 'completely lose their temper at the slightest mention of anything to do with Christmas.' This story attracted my attention, because, like the oppressed Austrians, I once had to endure 6 months of Christmas music whilst working in a department store. You could argue that I asked for it, as I was flogging Christmas decorations, but it may explain why my ears start bleeding everytime I hear Paul McCartney jauntily imploring everyone to have a 'Wonderful Christmastime', or John Lennon tunelessly droning on about how war is over. That said, there are six or seven Christmas songs to which I'll happily listen, and I certainly don't lose my temper at the slightest mention of Christmas. I was even grateful for the two cans of shop branded lager and a Christmas pudding the store gave me as a 'Christmas bonus'. In fact, this year, I haven't looked forward to Christmas so much since I was eight years old.

One man who may have been spending too much time listening to the piped music in the store he owns is David Tang, proprietor of Shangai Tang. I quote below from his letter to the South China Morning Post:

'Looking at the utterly ghastly Christmas tree in Central, I just wonder if it is not too much to ask for the vapid Hong Kong tourist board at least to engage someone with even a modicum of style or an amoebic degree of taste so as to present Hong Kong with the slightest hint of sophistication.'

He's got a point actually, but perhaps he should stay out of the city as Winterfest kicks off.

Ho ho ho.

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I was in Tokyo for two days and scratched the surface only to the extent that a piece of raw fish being dragged over Sony's latest plasma screen would. But, sitting on the train during the long journey from the airport to the city, the hoards of dark-suited businessmen and short-skirted schoolgirls (complete with knee length white socks) I glimpsed on the passing platforms tempted me to think that perhaps I did know the place in a way, that perhaps the cliches were true.

And then of course, as soon as I got into the city, even in its appearance Tokyo surprised me. For me, and perhaps my fellow travellers, it was, at least for a couple of days, the perfect antidote to Hong Kong. The weather was cold, a gently crisp wind lightening the air - a relief from the pollution-heavy humidity back in China. The atmosphere was relaxed and placid - although the streets thronged with people there was a calm quietness to them: for example, on the underground, as in London, no-one spoke. The Japanese cars hummed smoothly by with none of the chaos and belching fumes of Central. And the city itself reminded me of a modern New York or Paris, with wide boulevards and street cafes, complemented by intriguing alleys and lanes.

It was down one of these that we wandered searching for supper. After several tentative but ultimately cowardly attempts to choose a suitable restaurant I eventually took the initiative and slid open the door of an establishment - I should add this was only because I had been peering through the window and noticed two kimonoed women laughing at me. I had no idea, even when we were being led into the place, whether this was even a restaurant. Luckily it was, and we were shown into our private room, where we sat at our table which was only a few inches from the matted floor. We pointed at a set menu on the basis of the price, since there was no English to give us an indication of what we were to have, and then spent a couple of leisurely hours eating, amongst bowls of food I couldn't identify, sushi, sashimi, tempura and sea snail, neatly accompanied by sake.

Then it was off to Rappongi, via the underground. Despite the hideously complicated tube map, which looks like the vomit of someone who's eaten a bit too much multi-coloured spaghetti, we arrived without any trouble. Actually finding somewhere to drink that wasn't a grotty American style bar playing over-loud cock-rock or cheese was more of a difficulty. After trying various places we moved onto Shinjuku and it was here, in the underground station, that we met Hero.* Nicely suited, in a three-piece and with a grinning but mute sidekick, Hero was a young professional who liked the English. He told us he knew a bar nearby, and although a slight reluctance had begun to set in, we followed. Fifteen minutes later and still walking, the patience of some was being tested. But Hero had excitedly called his wife to join us, and he was so polite and friendly, that we persevered. The bar we arrived at was plush and quiet and a pleasant change from the ex-pat dross of Rappongi. Unfortunately there was also a high cover charge that led to a boycott of the bar and three of the group escaping to the hotel. The three of us remaining were eagerly led by Hero to a nearby sports bar that he promised would have drinks. But sadly, despite it being relatively early, they had stopped serving. Hero was devastated - he couldn't go on. He warmly shook our hands, repeating, 'I'm sorry, I'm sorry'. I'm sure I could see the tears start to prick his eyes as he left. We briefly discussed the possibility of him committing Hari-Kiri, before heading for the nearest clutter of neon signs, which turned out to be the Red Light District.

After a few more drinks and futile attempts to find off-the-wall Japanese weirdness, as shows like Adam and Joe Go Tokyo had entitled us to expect (there was an especially concerted effort to find a mythical 'Cabbage Bar' which to my relief we never stumbled across) we headed towards the nearest Capsule Hotel.

Spending the remaining hours of the night in a rectangular box was a peculiar experience - the two-high rows of units lining the large room reminded me of photos of chickens encased in battery farms. Having piled my clothes in a locker, and avoided the tipsy businessman swaying back and forth, I crawled into my capsule and pulled down the blind. It was slightly too short for me, but the ceiling was just about high enough to semi-sit up in. On my right a little control panel gave me a light switch, a radio and an alarm clock, as well as control of the compact television suspended from the ceiling. There was also an enigmatic coin box near the opening of the capsule. I didn't try it, too tired and newly hungover to do anything but sleep, but the next morning I was reliably informed that it made pornography (albeit censored) come on the T.V..

The following day and a half brought further confirmation of some cliches (four streams of pedestrians crossing an intersection under giant neon signs, cameras the size of a flashbulb in the Sony Centre) and further fascinating and novel sights (a procession of men with Samurai Swords, the park and moat surrounding the Imperial Palace, Mount Fuji just visible as a silhouette through the clouds), as well as a considerably more successful night out, fuelled undoubtedly by a glorious rugby match.

As I rushed through the underground system, trying to work out how not to miss my flight back to Hong Kong, I realised that it was the first time I had felt under pressure or harassed in Tokyo. I've no idea if the Tokyo I briefly experienced was anything like the real thing, but hopefully before too long I'll get the opportunity to return for a bit longer and find out.

[*June 2006 Edit: On reflection this gentleman's name was probably the common Japanese name 'Hiro' and not the unheard of 'Hero'. However I choose to believe, despite seeing no written evidence and contrary to rational thought, that the latter was accurate in this case.]

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Despite the threat of a crocodile on the loose, The Rolling Stones finally made it to Hong Kong last weekend. The menace of SARS had scuppered earlier attempts to visit, and for a while it didn't look as though their rock 'n' roll pantomime would be passing through town this time either.

Perhaps this was why I was fairly indifferent to their visit, and hadn't really registered they were playing on Friday night until someone mentioned it to me on the day. After a moment's contemplation spent considering my current plans for the evening - slouched in front of the television watching a couple of DVDs and snacking endlessly on pistachio nuts and raw pasta - I decided to head out at lunchtime and buy a ticket. By the time I was leaving work I was quite excited - this was, after all, the legendary Stones, a band whose music I'd gone through a short phase of listening to constantly when I was about 16 and who could lay a credible claim to being one of the biggest live bands in the world.

On entering the Harbour Fest open-air enclosure I noticed that this was the only gig I'd been to where the bouncers outside the venue openly carried guns (they were the police), ironic perhaps for a Rolling Stones concert, when you think about their past mishaps with bouncers. Unfortunately by the time I was settling into my (very expensive) plastic chair, the support act, an Elvis impersonator, had more or less finished his set. The seats around me gradually filled up - mainly with 'westerners', mostly middle-aged Americans, such as the moustachioed man over the aisle to my left, tapping along to the 60's folk songs blaring out of the speakers, in his stone-washed blue jeans and brown brogues, or the German guy behind me, apologetically bringing back drinks for his friends ('Sorry guys, the queue for beer was like you don't want to know, so I went for coffee'). This was to be a gig where the only smokey fragrance floating over the crowd was the smell of cigars.

I waited happily. On the stage, behind which rows of skyscrapers pushed into the night air, roadies pretended to fiddle with equipment, while powerful lights surged on and off. Would Keith Richards crumble into dust during the set? Would Bill Clinton, rumoured to be in the audience, join them on saxophone? Would they play Cash and Carry? Where is Barry? Before I could give much thought to these vital questions, a Knight of the Realm pranced onto the stage, wearing a thigh length sky-blue coat and very tight trousers. The arena erupted into life and the show started.

In my part of the arena everyone was standing on their chairs by the first few bars of Brown Sugar, the opening number. Moustache-Brogue man started double-punching the air and occasionally clapping out of tune (something he would persist in doing throughout), while I abandoned my seat in an attempt to get a bit further forward. Sadly, my progress was blocked by another armed policeman, so I scuttled back and hopped on the seat. The view was great, as were the band. They motored through the hits, as they have done thousands of times before - Start Me Up, You Can't Always Get What You Want, Satisfaction, Paint it Black, erm, Angie and the rest, but, for me, the musical highlight was an excellent version of Sympathy for the Devil. Mick attempted to speak Cantonese (such a shame that the majority of the audience, including me, only knew their address in that language) while his English between-song chat was disappointingly uninspiring for a band who spend most of their time playing live - 'Are you having a good time? I said, are you having a good time?'...

But as well as sounding great and coasting through the set with confidence and ease, not once lacking momentum or verve, they were also hilarious. Mick's trademark dancing, all arms and hips, Keith's terrible solo spot, the ridiculous projected cartoon of a naked woman riding a giant tongue during one song (the image eradicates the memory of which tune it actually was), the excessive use of saxophone and the band's rock posturing kept me smiling until the end.

The encore consisted of just the one song - Jumping Jack Flash - during which large squares of multi-coloured confetti were sprayed into the arena - it looked stunning - and then, they took a curtain call, and were off, presumably to their hotel, to enjoy a mug of cocoa or perhaps a Mars bar or two.

A memorable gig, but I suppose, nothing less than I expected. As I wandered into Wan Chai to find a bar I reflected on the fact that those men have the same energy they had 30 years ago. It's slightly worrying, as I don't have the same energy I had 30 minutes ago.

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