Gary Flockhart: I do want to go to Chelsea – Hotel, that is, New York

A GOOD friend, they say, will come bail you out of jail, but a true friend will be sitting next to you saying, "Damn, that was fun!"

With this in mind, map-reader and I make our move as soon as the elevator doors open.

We've innocently wandered into the lobby of the famous Chelsea Hotel, initially for a quick neb around the place, then, quite spontaneously, decided to make a dash for the lift.

They say it's one of the most basic of all human instincts to want to poke around in places where you have no business being in. I'll second that – and where better than the Chelsea Hotel?

After all, this is a rare place with real history, in a country where there is rarely any history.

The 12-story red-brick was built in 1883, and it has always been a hub of artistic and bohemian activity, thanks to the long list of famous guests who have passed through its doors.

Sir Arthur C. Clarke wrote 2001: A Space Odyssey while staying at the Chelsea, and it was here Dylan Thomas was staying when he died of alcohol poisoning on November 4, 1953, after a night on the razz at the White Horse Tavern in Greenwich Village – a bar map-reader and I had been drinking in ourselves an hour prior to our visit to the hotel.

Allen Ginsberg, Jack Kerouac and William Burroughs chose it as a place for intellectual exchange during the Fifties, going there to visit the so-called unsung Beat, Herbert Huncke, who resided there for a while.

And, perhaps most famously, it was here, in Room 100, where Sid Vicious of the Sex Pistols allegedly stabbed girlfriend Nancy Spungen to death (note: there are various conspiracy theories, such as Nancy was killed by an angry drug dealer while Sid was out of it on heroin).

"Anyway, it's got to be worth a look," I reason to map-reader as we travel up the elevator. She doesn't look so sure about that, so I say what Hunter S Thompson might have said under the circumstances – "Buy the ticket, take the ride, Doll."

Besides, by now there is only one way out – back down all those floors.

So why not take the stairs all the way back down? Take the ride as Doctor Gonzo put it.

We do, and are met with a free art exhibition for our trouble. The walls are jammed with works created by many of the artists who have visited – a virtual who's who of who is anyone.

Everyone from abstract expressionist painter Willem de Kooning to dandy Andy Warhol – though it's hard to tell who painted what (I'd have spotted a Warhol a mile off had there been any; maybe even bagged it for my kitchen).

Eventually, we make it down as far as the first floor, by which point I've decided that, if the chance presents itself, I'm going into Room 100.

It ain't an easy find by any stretch. Map-reader and I walk the length of the corridor three times before working out that Room 100 has to be the one unmarked room on the floor – the sign probably taken down to keep out pesky Gonzo tourists like ourselves.

Not really knowing what my plan is should the door open I quietly turn the knob. Bad luck, the damn thing is closed; no chance to find any evidence to acquit Sid this time.

Back on the ground floor the porter/security guard clocks us. I tell him we're visitors from England (well, why get the Scots a bad name abroad?) and just wanted to ask a few questions about the history of the place.

Not realising where we'd just been, he says he'll take us up the top floor and let us walk down the stairs – provided we don't make any noise, steal any paintings, or try any doors.

At this point, your reporter and his map-reader make their excuses and leave the Chelsea Hotel.