The Hard Rock Cafe. Only thing it's hard on (here in India, I don't know about elsewhere) is your wallet if you ask me. Or is that what it costs to have the company of so many gorgeous pub-going, loose and forward women? If it is then it's paisa vasool. Because OMG! - Honey you got the prettiest baps I ever seen, but if you go out looking like that you better be accompanied by a third-dan black belt in bludy Kung Fu or you could be asking for trouble!

But she didn't look too worried. Which really is a wonderful thing to see.

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Sad though that an international name like the HRC would want to make a fast buck off us deprived desi pub goers. No Indian whisky I'm told, so I have Fosters, which for those who know their beer is Australian for piss. After two of those I'm told by the nice man in black that they're out of that as well. Try Tiger, he tells me. Yea rite, and how much is that? 140 a pint. How lovely! Old trick dude, but this ain't no roadside dhaba ... this is - or at least it's supposed to be - the Hard Rock Goddamn Cafe! People at the next table go quiet. Man in black gives me a take it or leave it look. And somewhere at the back of my mind is the sight of those half a dozen beefcakes manning the entrance. I take it. Awful! The only thing Tiger them Singaporeans should stick to making is that bludy Balm of theirs if you ask me.

Then all of a sudden some of the staff and a bunch of others get up onto the bar to do a Coyote Ugly for us. Oh wow! Only this turned out to be a Coyote Fugly. But the others seemed to be enjoying it. Hell you're getting ripped off, might as well make the most of it.

But it's funny how nobody seemed too interested in all the rock memorabilia up on the walls. And the music - there's more to rock than those standard beaten to death numbers, but somehow DJ's here would rather not take the risk. I wonder why.

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For all the women in my life who've made me a better man, and indeed all the women who read this blog - Cat Stevens ... If you want to sing out, sing out baby!