We went out for a quiet drink. But the karaoke crowd took over the pub.
A middle aged man set up his computer, speakers and microphones. He played snippets of songs. And in between he sang a few and invited his following to come and have a go.
Karaoke deejays have people following them from pub to pub. These people are not talented enough to win through the early rounds of Britain's Got Talent. But in their heads they're David Gray or Neil Diamond or the girls from ABBA. In their stupid self-centred heads.
They take it seriously. They feel the anticipation as they mentally prepare for their next time on stage. Because they do have several chances each to show off as the evening progresses. Their fellow karaoke creeps cheer them on, applaud them off. The deejay pretends he's reading out the next singer's name as if he doesn't know him (19 times out of 20 the singer is male). He does know him, of course. They're all part of the same strange family.
I imagined them all getting together for a karaoke family funeral. Then, as if by magic, some dickhead started up Robbie Williams' Angels. I could see the coffin and the tears as the karaoke family swayed in their seats, arms aloft, as the young singer belted out an off-key version of that death classic. It's exactly the send-off Neil Diamond/Elvis Presley/Gene Pitney/Roy Orbison would have wanted. And his manner of death, a massive coronary on the karaoke stage was exactly how he would have wanted to go.
Yes, we did get Babylon and Wonderwall and Amarillo and 500 Miles. It was so fucking predictable. The twats had absolutely no imagination. At least the bloke who looked like Ian Curtis could have done She's Lost Control, really lost control and fucked up his dad's laptop.
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