My mouth tasted of deceased gerbil. My body clock was haywire. I’d just endured a sleepless eight-hour night flight across four time zones with two small children, and I felt like Fungus the Bogeyman on amphetamines. Clearly, what I needed to fix me up was some electrocution.

Not the most obvious conclusion, perhaps, but that’s what the Luzmon Clinic in west London would prescribe. It has just launched a new jetlag treatment based on what it calls thermostimulation: they strap Nasa-designed silicon pads to your body, which simultaneously heat up your skin with an infrared element and shoot 24 volts of electricity through you. It’s supposed to improve circulation, release endorphins, ease stiffness and generally zap you back to life, as well as ensuring that when you do crash out, you sleep well and deeply.

I’m naturally sceptical of “alternative” treatments, but I figured that, if nothing else, being hooked into to the national grid was going to be an eye-opener. So, three hours after hitting Gatwick, there I was, in the bowels of the Kensington premises, wearing nothing but 10 gel-lubricated pads, voluminous paper boxer shorts and a worried frown.

I lay on the treatment table as the consultant, Caroline, hooked up the spaghetti of wires leading from my pads to the large machine that controls the current. “Ideally, you don’t want to sleep until later tonight, so we’ll go more for stimulation than relaxation,” she said with a cheery smile.

And WHAM! She wasn’t kidding. You remember that experiment in biology lessons, where the teacher wired a frog’s legs up to a battery to show how the current made them kick? I was that frog. As Caroline twisted the dial, my arms and legs started to spasm like a child’s jumping-jack toy. I felt weird and faintly ridiculous, bouncing around in my Giant Haystacks paper pants. In fact, scrub the “faintly”.

Not dignified, then, but certainly interesting. You’d think electrocution would be electrocution, but no: the machine uses 17 different patterns of alternating current to produce a range of sensations, from the merely strange to the literally shocking.

That first current — one of the milder ones — felt like being vigorously tapped all over with wooden spoons. (Don’t ask how I know this.) The next was most recognisably an electric shock, like an extremely mild version of shoving your finger in a light socket. The third felt like a blast from a super-powered shower, but the fourth was strangest and strongest: the staccato Bam!-Bam!-Bam! of electricity was like having a fiercely pummelling massage — but on the inside of your body, not the outside. By now my limbs were completely beyond my control, hands and feet fluttering about like butterflies as I looked on, bemused and powerless, at my own convulsing body.

To add to the fun, Caroline can set different levels of current for the different padded-up areas, pushing each one as high as you can bear. Unsurprisingly, I turned out to be a complete wimp on my weedy upper arms, taking only 15% of what the machine could belt out. “Yes, that is rather low, but then you are jet-lagged,” said Caroline. “It’s not all bad news, though,” she added brightly, pointing to a 40% read-out on the screen. “Look, you’ve got a very robust bottom!” For some reason, this wasn’t what I wanted to hear.

And after the 40-minute session? Well, my hair stood on end, like that of a freshly zapped cartoon character, but then it always looks like that. I felt buzzing, invigorated, nothing like the jaded wreck who had stumbled off a 777. The Luzmon’s medical claims for its technique strike me as a bit dubious — whenever I hear the phrase “expulsion of toxins”, I reach for my quackometer — but the fact is, for me, it worked. I’d been jolted back into the groove: where I usually spend an age adjusting my sleep patterns, this time I crashed out at 9pm, slept for 11 hours, and was fit as a fiddle the next day.

I reckon they should install zapping machines at every airport in the land, but until they do, you’ll have to make the groggy trek to Kensington. If you’re within range, do it. Believe me, it’s electrifying.

The Luzmon is at 45 Phillimore Walk, W8; 020 7937 3200, www.luzmon.com .

JetLag Rescue treatments last 45 minutes and cost £80

Too electrifying? Try these

THE PILLS

Celebrity passengers from the All Blacks to Nelly Furtado swear by NoJetLag, a homeopathic remedy from New Zealand. The makers claim the preparation of arnica, extract of daisy, camomile, ipecacuanha and moss has been proved effective in double-blind trials. They’re hard to buy in the UK, so pick them up on your travels: see www.nojetlag.com for stockists around the world, and expect to pay about £7.

THE DIET

The AntiJetLag Diet, developed by Chicago University’s Argonne laboratories, works by using nutritional cues — timing of meals, type of food, quantities and so on — to reset your body clock, speeding up or slowing down your metabolism. Go to www.antijetlagdiet.com , where for £9 you get a customised diet with a list of body-fooling carbs and proteins.

THE HAT

The Light Visor, from the Cambridge-based research company Outside In, uses an array of light-emitting diodes to fire bursts of white light onto your face. Alternated with light-blocking sunglasses, it simulates night and day, so resetting your body clock: £299, contact 01954 780500, www.outsidein.co.uk .

THE GUNK

Sunday Times luxury travel correspondent Susan d’Arcy uses Sodashi Jet Lag Recovery Gel from Australia. It’s dabbed on the nape of the neck and pulse points every three hours during travel, where the active ingredients — grapefruit, rosemary, lemongrass, peppermint and ginger — can get to work. £30 for a 50ml tube, from www.sodashi.com .