Rick and I found a jazz club in Bombay. It was full of rich India businessmen, and empty of jazz.
Instead, there was a wedding singer. We all sang our way through 'Mustang Sally', 'Sweet Caroline' and 'Come On Eileen' quite happily, paying through the nose for vodka.
It was blissful. "How ironic is all this?" I asked Rick after half an hour.
"Not at all," came the grim response.