All These Things That I Did

I think I may have a problem, readers. Those of you who made it to my 30th birthday party may already have an idea about this affliction and those of you who have only known me since I've been out here in Canada will definitely know. I'm a karaoke addict - a karaolic, if you will. I just can't seem to stop myself and it's getting out of hand. On more than one occasion I've found myself singing in karaoke bars on my own having ditched the people I was out with in favour of pursuing my dirty little habit. And what's worse, the more I feed this habit, the less I can do without it. (Look there's a pic of me singing some random sent me from Friday night - helps illustrate the problem, don't you think? - Reckon I can get a better one than that though, I just need time)

But maybe it's not such a bad thing. I'm not hurting anyone directly with my addiction - although I have murdered one or two songs along the way. Last Friday (and every Friday, as you ask) I was at my regular karaoke bar, but thankfully I wasn't alone this time. Apart from Len, the owner of the equipment and MC for the night - that's his name - I know Len's name - I was with my flatmates, who have, gamely and sometimes even willingly, been along a couple of times to watch and even take part sometimes. Everything was going according to plan until that fifth pitcher, then it all began to unravel. Looking through the song books I came across the Trouser-snake himself and, head swimming with beer and ill-conceived confidence, I thought to myself, 'What can this multi award-winning superstar do that I can't?'. It turns out the most important advantage JT has over AM is that he can sing. And so it was that I marched purposefully up to the mic just as the intro of Like I Love You riffed out in the fairly packed bar and, grabbing said mic, began to wind and grind in a manner I believed appropriate to contemporary rhythm and blues.

I'm not sure if you've all seen that episode of I'm Alan Partridge when, on Valentine's Day, he decides to serenade his date for the evening with a rendition of Close To You by The Carpenters, but if you have, then you'll have a pretty good idea of how this story ends. Badly. About a verse in and having already attempted the very high, '...sing a song for me...', to an open-mouthed and utterly silent audience, I gingerly replaced the mic in its stand and yelled in Len's ear that this must end immediately. I was drunk, but not drunk enough not to feel the shame of shirking off the stage to the boos and occasional, 'you stink!' of strangers and non-strangers alike. It was just 'too high', to quote the Partridge, but I have to say, at least I knew to give it up when I did, thus avoiding serious injury to anything other than my dignity.

But just like the true alcoholic won't let several incidents of finding themselves waking up trousers down, bent over the lav with Fido lapping at their bumhole stop them from doing what they feel compelled to, I got back on that horse shortly afterwards and belted out a distinctly average version of All These Things That I've Done by The Killers. Hoorah! Unlike the alcoholics though, I did learn a lesson last Friday - no more Timberlake for me. But hey, it's just Justin.

To end with here are some things that are uniquely North American which I have seen or tried recently:

A postman's title over here is letter carrier.

Corndogs look like a little penis covered in an enormous battered foreskin and taste like cheap pate covered in an enormous battered foreskin.

The Red Bull ads out here have to say, for legal reasons, that it doesn't actually give you wings.

Root beer tastes like TCP, but has no healing properties whatsoever.

Goodnight.

(PS, as always, thanks goes to those who commented on my last post, and this week I'm tipping my hat to Daws and Stoxsie. Thanks guys and that's a bloody good idea, Daws.)