Fishy hangover-cures & eternal damnation...

The Observer asked me to file an additional column this week to complement a special eco-travel edition, so I managed to write this effort below on my birthday before going out on the town to enjoy Hong Kong! The online article is here, but the text as always is below:

On my last morning in Tokyo I was determined to visit the world's biggest fish market, where 1,500 stalls flog the fruits of the world's oceans. Unfortunately in order to catch the tuna auction that is the highlight of the show you need to be there by 6am. I prepared for this exciting experience by staying up practically all night drinking heavily. This was perhaps ill advised.

My friend Joe, who had insisted an hour and a half earlier that he was 'still up for it', failed to rouse at 5am when the alarm rudely rang. Bleary-eyed, I navigated the Tokyo metro alone, silently praising the fantastic efficiency and accessibility of the Japanese system. I emerged blinking into commercial bedlam. A seething sea of trucks, wagons, handcarts and weird motorised trolleys surged in and out of the vast warehouse complex.

In the depths of the market a large building contained serried ranks of frozen tuna carcasses, lying in neat rows like icy torpedoes. A big fat auctioneer perched on a stool was calling the prices, his voice ululating, his arms flapping and his belly wobbling in synchrony as the value of each lot rose. Around him stood a gaggle of poker-faced bidders eyeing up the sashimi-to-be. Once sold, the frosty fish were dragged off for dismemberment and distribution by market workers armed with hooked metal spikes. I staggered through this chaos trying not to get in the way, slip on the wet floor, or get run over by a trolley or impaled on a tool of some description. In the end I took the safest option and stood with my back to the wall.

Stallholders armed with huge samurai-type swords were performing the dissection task, artistically slicing away at the soft pink tuna flesh in almost loving fashion. One vendor was proudly displaying his rare wares, fat chunks of bloody, ragged-looking steak. Whale meat. Just what your average environmentalist wants to see before breakfast. By the time I left two hours later, I had seen a bewildering array of cold wet flesh and was distinctly sober. As a hangover cure it was extreme but effective.

That afternoon another super-sexy Shinkansen Bullet train whisked me to Kyoto, where the famous climate change protocol was agreed. I sought out a Spartan night of zen simplicity, staying in a traditional Japanese ryokan guesthouse. It looked like the previous occupant had stolen all the bedroom furniture from my austere tatami room. It was empty but for a low table and two small cushions. I sat and ate my kaiseki meal, which turned food presentation into an art form of intricately prepared and arranged delicacies. I was unsure whether to photograph it or eat it. So I did both. After dinner the maid produced my futon from the hidden wardrobe with an illusionist's flourish. I then lay on the floor drawing up mental plans to destroy all my obviously superfluous furniture at home.

In the morning I caught the ferry from Osaka back to Shanghai. On board I met James, a Californian who'd been teaching English in Thailand. Deeply religious, he was sceptical about organised churches. 'I guess I'm still searching,' he said.

Being agnostic I engaged him in a lengthy philosophical debate on God, biblical prophecy and how likely it was that I would end up in the 'Lake of Fire' for all eternity. Quite likely, according to James, who added: 'Don't get me wrong, I don't think you're rotten to the core.' Gee thanks. It was a long, slow boat journey back to China.