Karaoke!

I recently discovered my favourite haunt, (The Rutting Duck) in an attempt to draw in the "younger crowd," (apparently we old frats drink too slowly), decided to add Karaoke to their list of attractions in an attempt to give the place some ambiance. (Usually Ambulances and the vice squad are the only thing it attracts..).

From what I later gleaned from the experience, (once my hearing was restored), is that by simply adding a text prompter, huge PA speakers and excessive amounts of alcohol, even the most tone deaf can become Pavarotti. Having somewhat of an awesome reputation in the aforementioned pub, (I've never been stabbed/glassed there), I usually get the best seat in the house, a corner stool next to the stage, (the one without the blood stains and with almost level legs).

I must have done something to anger the owner, a rather large, tattooed barman affectionately named 'Crash' because of his perchant for throwing himself off the bar head first, and bouncing off the flag-stoned floor for his party piece... Upon mounting my throne the other night, I found that a rather large speaker had been nailed somewhat precariously on the wall, at ear level.

The electronic nightmare remained silent during the earlier part of the evening, I knew Karaoke meant silent orchestra, but I was beginning to wonder what the point was, perhaps they were trying to attract the deaf pound or something, who knows.....

Erstwhile we, the middle/old/decrepit denizens, partook of the two for one happy hour specials, (two pina colanders, one half of Old Bulchers paint stripper), one of the benefits of getting there early.

I was getting racing tips from 'Gonzo' (Emmanuel-Hughes), the resident wino who sweeps the floors and clears the tables for copious amounts of scrumpy Cider (Or the drip trays he isn't fussy), when a booming voice in an octave high enough to shatter glass, began warbling what may or may not have been, "Stop In the name of Love", stop in the name of God and all that's musical, would be nearer the mark.. the only resemblance this rendition had to the classic tune was the words.

Having my nether regions shaved with a cheese grater would have been considerably more pleasant.

It was awful, but, like a moth to a flame, I couldn't look away.

The next budding crooner, a rather well blessed young ethnic lady wearing her skirt for a headband, who was having a hard time navigating to the stage, after 23 WKD's or something, had all eyes in the house on her as she gyrated and belted out an almost passable version of Tammy Wynette's, "Stand by Yo' Man" over the catcalls and requests for her to "stop the grinnin and drop the linen," (I sometimes get mildly boisterous after a few largers).

Gonzo favoured us next with an Otis Redding classic that, I'm certain, had Mr. Redding spinning in his grave, "Sittin on a log with a tray...getting splinters stuck in my bum...".

By now, I was certain it was time to call it a night. Knowing I was slightly over my limit, I asked Crash to call me a taxi, because somehow, I had suddenly acquired a lithp and passable degree in speaking Swahilli from somewhere.... "Ok, you're a taxi ha ha!" he said, (there's always one isn't there ?) did I tell you he was witty ?

Usually it's a banker give or take a consonant... Unfortunately, taxis are hard to get on a Saturday night, 100 yards outside the Newport Town centre and they want danger money and an armed guard.. and Crash was quick to inform me that it would be at least an hour before a cab could be dispatched, because the Gwent Hospital was choca-bloc ... and they have to hose down the upholstery, after an outbreak of Kebabs.

He did, however, offer to give me a ride home later if I didn't mind staying until things slowed down a bit.

In a never ending cycle, drunk after drunk took the stage to favour their adoring and drunken fans, everything from Britney to Whitney, jangled every nerve, 'girls just wanna have fun", (and then they throw up and fall off the stage ?), I'm sure isn't in the dance routine but I did wonder what the net and mop was for.........

Their alcohol induced bravery, propels even those with the mildest of personalities to the stage to take their turn at the alcohol and saliva-stained microphone, to showcase their erstwhile unheard-of musical ineptness, of course, most cannot read the auto-cue by now.

Being inches from sticking an ice pick in my ear to save my sanity, when none other than my annoying next door neighbour, in the company of someone other than his wife, took the stage to secure his moment of fame. Things were looking up.

Being an erudite blogger, I am always in possession of a small digi-recorder to capture any brainstorms, or passing muse I might conjure up when I'm away from my hard drive.

Short term memory is one of the first victims of muddled age (Now what was I talking about..... Cricket ? Spleen-Splicing ?), anyway, my close proximity to the PA speaker made capturing the audio of my sure fire ticket to get my own back on said neighbour, as easy as taking candy from a baby.

My neighbour and his paramour stood nuzzling and cooing, cheek to cheek, belting out a rather bone numbing version of "I Got You Babe."

I was thinking the very same thing, BINGO! (the drinks are on him for the next few months...).

I also got a picture of the smiling illicit couple with a mobile phone to add graphic visuals to my presentation, the next time I see him.

As the evening neared it's end, for some inexplicable reason, (probably the 7 lagers), the ballads actually began sounding better.

The evening ended on a high note (C sharp I think...). As a treat to the remaining patron/s, I took the stage to favour my adoring fans with my usual impeccable version of Frank Sinatra's, "My Way." (Yep, I'm the boring old frat at the end they hire when they want to empty the pub...) The roaring, standing ovation that followed my final note had me floating back to my stool on a cloud, and brought a tear to the old eyes, until I realized that the highlights of a football game were being aired on the widescreen TV beside the stage, and the applause was for a brilliantly goal by Donaldo Frigzboja, or someone else with an Irish name.... and I returned to my stool, slightly deflated, Crash was kind enough to serve me a final beer.

Smiling, he said, "Merv, I really loved that song. Who did that?", I said, "Ole Blue eyes, Sinatra sang it... Why?", "Well next time, let him sing it, OK ?