There were times, many many years ago, that come 2am or so on a Saturday evening, I would, encouraged by a beverage or two, join some of my equally inebriated friends in a rendition of Abba's Dancing Queen on a make-shift stage during karaoke hour. The performance resembled a squawking group of would-be teenage rock-stars sharing a dodgy microphone, belting out the disco tune at the top of our lungs while attempting some equally as dubious dance moves to soak up our 3.41 minutes of fame. Tragic.

With that memory cemented in the defi nitely "do not revive" section of my brain, I had not one ounce of desire to ever observe, partake or even acknowledge karaoke, ever again. And then I came to China.

At first I refused to acknowledge the dominance of giant fl uorescent pink microphones on buildings that could quite possibly indicate a karaoke or "KTV" location inside. "Surely, there could not be literally hundreds of establishments in the one city," I told myself, before proceeding in ignorant bliss. Then the invitation came.

One of my American friends was to host a birthday party – Chinese style. Images of a delicious banquet, Chivas and green tea and a disco-ball laden techno-music pumping nightclub came to mind. I began to mark my calendar when I noticed the location – KTV.

Ignoring the feeling of pure dread that immediately swept through my body, I calmly called my friend to find out when the party may be moving on to a different location. Her reply: it most likely would not.

Mustering my courage and steeling myself to grin and bear it, upon arrival I was greeted by a pair of frighteningly large red sparkly doors beckoning me in. Holding my breath, closing my eyes and making the step toward no return I was blown away with what was inside.

I found myself standing in a foyer more opulent than I had ever seen. Chandeliers, gold-plated banisters, formallydressed attendants and stairs that appeared to have no end, were all inviting me onward. Led up several staircases, I was escorted into my friend's private party room, complete with plush red-velvet furniture, mood lighting, a bar and the most sophisticated karaoke setup, possibly in the universe.

Choosing a darkened corner and a consolatory beer, I pasted a smile on my face through scary renditions of modern Chinese love songs and poor 80s covers. And then the unthinkable happened, the familiar Dancing Queen riff  was played and a microphone thrust into my hand. Swept up by nostalgia and a group of crazy people, there I was again, on stage singing my lungs out. I get it now – the feeling of fame, lights and a thankfully heavily pitch-controlled high-tech mic in hand – instant stardom. KTV is the entertainment choice of millions in China; the multilevel complexes offer free food and endless possibilities. Who knows, now I have broken all of my boundaries, I may even do it again.