It made you laugh. More often, though, it made you weep; farce, fact and fantasy fused to create a stinging vapour. They had to pass round bin liners so that people could throw in their sodden tissues. The tears came out of a sense of triumph as much as relief. Twenty-five years ago, we, the Ugandan Asians, were humiliatingly thrown out of that country by Idi Amin, only to face more hatred and degradation in Britain. Today we were revelling in the fact that we are now the most successful immigrant group in Britain. (As Mr Patel said: “We can buy any part of this island and put it in our pockets. But we should still be humble.”) To make matters even better, we were about to be serenaded by the current President of Uganda, Yoweri Museveni.

At least that was the expectation as 8,000 people gathered in a vast, beautiful hall in London last month. History was being made (and sometimes invented) and hardly a bird from the homomorphic flock of British journalists was there to bear witness. Perhaps they were put off by the fact that this event took place in the ghastly landscape between the North Circular Road and Neasden, although, to compensate, it was held at the exquisite marble Swaminarayan temple. They missed this wonder and some excellent vegetarian food, too.

Hundreds of temple volunteers ensured that you were seated in the exact spot marked out for you. A finely graded caste system defined you as very very important (chair and white card which allowed you to eat with the most distinguished afterwards), very important (chair and red card which meant you ate with those slightly less elevated) and the merely important who sat on chairs but were not catered for afterwards. The rest sat on the carpet. On a platform sat the awesomely important people-all men. All rich, save the sadhus in orange robes with shaved heads and vermilion marks on their pious, shiny foreheads. Billions of pounds silently pulsated in the temple; mobile phones went off intermittently showing how intrepid people could add to their riches even in a temple. Keith Vaz MP sat tickling his handsome son, adding a touch of normality to the surreal scene.

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