Karaoke Terror

I have returned after an evening of joy/terror, spent in the company of one Jocelyn Beavertrap of Weston-Super-Mare. It would be fair to say that indeed, I am a little tipsy, and yes, I had a big Mac and fries on the number 2 bus. (Sorry, TFL).

Now, I spent a fine evening in an establishment named Halfway 2 Heaven, which hosts a karaoke night on a Thursday and on Sunday. It has possibly the most supportive DJ/karaoke MC chap, and an extensive range of songs.

Now, I do enjoy the whole karaoke thing, (even if I do have to drink several shots of medicinal brandy first), but I have noticed a new phenomena which simply did not exist a few years ago, and I'm not sure I like it.

Picture the scene, a karaoke night, down the local. You're all geared up and ready to, you've had a couple of the aforementioned medicinal courvisiers, (it's the cheapest one!), and someone called Jeanne, who has a half fallen out perm and a t-shirt with wolves on, is belting out "My Heart will Go On", like her life depended on it, bless her. Glass is smashing, and bats all around the county are falling down dead in confusion, but the point is that she's giving it her best shot, and Dwayne, her boyfriend, who sports a mullet and all over matching denim is obviously enchanted by this moving tribute to their love.

You know you're up soon. You saw her put her slip in just before you. You're quietly smug, because, my friend, although you actually suck ass at singing, you've chosen a novelty song and, to be fair, you are -just slightly- better than than Jeanne.

But then a dark cloud passes over the whole affair. It's not you next. It's some chap called Frank or something, and he's......wait for it........BROUGHT HIS OWN MOTHERF***ING CD?!
He is brilliant, he's not the most charismatic sort, but the fact remains, he's good and you're going to look like an escapee from the RNID hospice next to this.

And, sure as death, even though you quickly found god and prayed hard during the whole of Frank's rendition of "That's Life" (It's ALWAYS "That's Life"), our heavenly Father has seen through through this pathetic charade and has ignored your pleas, and you're next: Singing, nay, shouting with the occasional note thrown in, The Chicken Song from Spitting Image.

You try to play the "I don't care!Look at me, aren't I a card?!" er...card, and encourage the audience to "Come on chaps, Join in!!!!!", but it's too late - they've all just heard what singing should sound. ie, Not Arthur Scargill on holiday at Butlins. On crack. No amount of enthusiasm and self-depricating dance moves can save this car crash.

The "applause" barely lasts long enough for you to put the microphone back on the stand, and certainly not long enough for you to actually leave the stage.

Silence follows you back to your chair, like red ink in a hotel resort swimming pool follows the sneaky pisser. Alcoholism is the only possible outcome of this whole incident.

Call me old fashioned, call me a grumpy tw*t (although I'd do so from a distance), but is this really in the spirit of karaoke??? To bring your own backing track and (obviously) spend months practicing beforehand?

So I call on my brothers and sisters throughout the land - the shouters, the screachers and the tone-deaf - let us make a stand against this nonsense! Just say no to the professional karaoke singers! Take those cds out of their hands, and throw them, like a very shiny and sharp frisbee, and stamp upon them, screaming "Noooooooooooooooooooooooo!".

(I'd think of somesort of witty argument to present to Frank and Co, but I am p*ssed, as 'twas mentioned earlier).


So if you're with me folks, I shall expect to see you next Thursday, around 9-ish, Halfway 2 Heaven. You do Perfect by Fairground Attraction, and I'll try my Green Door.

See you there!