Portrait of an Armenian man, Yerevan.

HIS FACE IN YOUR FACE

If yesterday's swoop of luck seemed fairly surreal, then fasten yourself in as I set-out the events that came to pass last night in Central Yerevan.

I had fed and watered myself (with kebab and beer respectively- it's socially acceptable here to do it in that order). And after hanging out on the hostel stoop with the owners, a new acquaintance and I decided to head to the Troll pub up the road.

The decor took inspiration from Tolkein's tales, as the name suggests, and stepping inside was, indeed, rather fantastical.

Blasting from the corner was a small ensemble of violins and guitars furiously jangling out some Scottish traditional music. I was so taken aback that I tripped over my sandals, bumping into people and trundling down the steps into the main bar. But, to be fair, everyone could probably tell I was Scottish, and that my overexcitement had just naturally manifested itself into a spontaneous jig.

Facing the band stood a bunch of suited Brits clapping and stomping enthusiastically and way out of time. Every time the song stopped or changed or slowed they'd raise their bottles and chant "HURRAH!, BRAVO!, PINK FLOYD!". And the band would glance around and slip into Wish you were here.

I could tell by the lack of sandals and fanny packs that these men were not like me. Oh, and how they weren't! It turns out that the most enthusiastic of the dancers, bobbing his head against the grain of the melody, was the British Ambassador to Armenia. The man with the cool waist-coat and the Navy tattoos was Stephen Pound MP. The bloke who was occasionally nabbing the guitar for a jangle was David Morris MP and with them was another Tory member of parliament whose identity I couldn't find on Wikipedia.

I was in a state of disbelief- here I was, in a small bar in Yerevan, listening to Caledonia surrounded by British politicians. Was I actually just still on the marshrutka, dreaming?

To take it one step further, I spoke to David Morris and we had a mutual connection. And at this point the conversation turned a little frigid. Perhaps my questions were starting to pry too much, they were presumably in this tiny bar purely to be able to act exactly as they pleased!

The music stopped and the band explained that they had to for the neighbour's sake but the politicians bellowed out, "We have diplomatic immunity!! We're immune!! Play on!! , so they played on.

But the guys had stopped talking to me now and all but Mr Pound had slightly toned it down. I'd like to think it was because of me, but I'm entirely sure it wasn't. .

Before they left, the ambassador jovially announced a great thank you to the band and signed off with "And remember, we were never here!". I was here, though, and a few beers down I thought it would be side-splittingly banterous to retort "I'm a journalist!, so I did, but it got lost in activity of the bar so I just looked like a strange man who likes to shout out lies.

They could have at least offered me a beer, though, just claim it on their expenses. After all, your taxes probably paid for their trip!