24 Hour Party Person

08.00

I step off an Air India flight from Bangkok to Tokyo. Good to to get a taste of India in just to remind myself how bad things can be. I find myself more excited about this than any destination yet. I am expecting robots and disembodied female voices and sliding doors and an air- conditioned efficiency throughout. From the plane I head straight for the toilet, all a-flutter over the "Tomorrow's World" toilet experience I'm about to have. Nothing. No voice asking am I comfortable. No buttock massage. No heart rate monitor. Nothing remotely remote happens.

12.00

I am in an internet cafe/library. I think I am the only one using the internet. The library appears to cater to only manga and anime comic enthusiasts. There are thousands of comics, books and dvds. Men and women sit around reading in perfect silence. As I leave a bunch of schoolchildren head inside. "Herro!" they cry.

14.00

I go to an information booth where 3 ladies try and help me find a hostel. They ooh and aaah over me like they've found a lost pram. It turns out after much traipsing that all the hostels are full and I am directed to that quintessentially japanese businessman's refuge, the capsule hotel. You relinquish your belongings at the door, storing the clothes off your back with your bags and your boots. I shuffle into the lift in my slippers and institutional pyjamas, nearly colliding with a cleaner. She apologises profusely, bowing and looking at the floor. This is going to take getting used to. The capsule is surpisingly comfortable, not too claustrophobic, with tv and radio. I try and watch some japanese tv but its like watching dubbed fireworks so I switch it off before I get a headache.

17.00

There is a bathhouse on the top floor of my hotel, so I ascend in my pyjamas for an ould soaking. A few old men knock around the lounge, not looking at me, all of us dressed in our uniforms. They all seem deeply clinically medicated. Luckily there is no-one in at the actual baths. I am afraid of doing pretty much anything for fear of breaking some obscure japanese etiquette. (It doesn't even need to be obscure. At a gym once I used the spraybottle on the treadmill to cool myself down, only realising from the smell that I was coating myself in Windowlene.) Just as I settle in (naked, I decide, is what the locals would do) an old guy comes in. He's followed by two naked kids, who burst in and run out onto the open rooftop terrace. They shout and scream in delight, trying to get the attention of all the commuter traffic crawling along the expressway across the river. I am vaguely envious and then a little worried that if they all leave I'll end up out on the terrace, waving my willy at the world. Another old guy comes in, one with a shaven head. He has tattoos over 90% of his body, making him seem a little less naked than the rest of us. I find out later the full body tattoo is a trademark of the Yakuza, the Japanese mafia.

20.00

Starved of other traveller`s company I head out for the evening on my own. ( I have no-one.) Fortunately Tokyo has many places to eat unobtrusively on your own so I struggle gamely with my chopsticks and noodle soup quite unnoticed. I go to the first bar I see, a dark, windowless dive. "Happy" hour apparently. There are several other guys there on their own. One guy dances The Cure-like to some hippity hop music, alone on the dance floor. Another sits sunken at his table, with his hands squeezed between his legs and a gloomy expression. Another comes over to chat, the pick of the bunch don`t you know. I tell him what I do. We're all mentally handicapped, he says. Isn`t life so boring, he says, with a sigh and then downs his fifth tequila. This isn't going so well. He is japanese-american but speaks neither language very well. He tells me he's been to this bar several times then 2 minutes later asks me where the toilet is. I make my excuses and leave.

21.00

Stop at British pub for a pint of cider. There is a nice mix of whities and local girls who like whities. There is rugby on and I watch Wales lose well. The barman is Irish, a fellow Dubliner.

Him: Whereabouts?

Me: Em, Deansgrange. You?

Him: Em, Dun Laoghaire.

Me: Right. Actually I`m from Foxrock.

Him: Oh, ok. I`m from Dalkey.

This is the second time this has happened on my trip.

24.00

I inquire with the barman about a good place to go clubbing and he kindly invites me to a party he's going to . It's sort of a costume party he says vaguely. His friend comes in Goth-ified, with mad scientist goggles on his head and a slightly crazed look. We find our party on the 7th floor of a high rise business block. There are leather whips for sale on the way in. Hmmmm. Lads walk around with only a pair of leather underpants to protect their dignity (ha!). Other guys walk around on a leash being led by women. The guys mostly seem to be white guys. The girls however, nearly all asian, steal the show. Their costumes are stunning, many dressed up in fantastical ways that I have no way of describing. There are girls dressed perfectly as twin dolls, with the exact same make up except one is blue and the other is pink. Another girl/guy wears a black leather mask with what look like udders hanging down from their face. He stomps around semi-crouched, on stilts like bar stools. A scary looking midget wanders around. The MC is a tall japanese cross-dresser and he has the whole place under his spell. One girl wears only a chicken mask and a one-piece white skintight suit. With much fan-fare from the MC the chicken, ahem, lays eggs onstage.

04.00

When I tire of the farmyard fun I head outside. I have been warned that taxi fare to my hotel is about twice what I am paying for my capsule so I retire instead to an internet cafe. Here you can get your own internet booth with a black leather recliner and footrest for the night for about 6 euro. I try and stay awake to read minute by minute accounts of the Ireland vs Georgia game but I have to take refuge in sleep.

07.00

I arise for the subway journey back to my hotel. There are pairs of shoes neatly lined up outside all the booths in the internet cafe, a popular place to crash. Out on the street a guy sleeps casually on the pavement. There is no pool of vomit or blood by his head, he still has his shoes, in fact he still has his whole suit on. As I watch he gets up, quite refreshed looking, and walks away. It turns out the police here are happy to let drunken businessmen sleep it off on the pavement.

08.00

I arrive in my hotel needing the bathroom. This toilet is plugged into the wall. It switches on when I sit down and the seat warms up. There are buttons on the side and I press some absently. It whirrs a bit and beeps. There's a bidet option on which I can even control the pressure. But it still doesn't talk to me.