I hated karaoke, now I hate me doing karaoke

EVERYONE loves a free meal, but when you can’t cook you cherish a swanky free dinner. Sometimes they make you pay for those damn hot bread rolls though.

I’m beginning to think this freebie might not have been worth it when one of the guests starts telling us about the ‘process’ of writing her book and how lucky she was to have had it translated into 18 languages — we haven’t even got our mains.

I counteract by gulping the lovely wine and frequently stepping outside to smoke. A friend calls. She has just been to a leaving do; I can tell there have been no bread rolls and much inferior wine. She wants me to meet them at a karaoke bar. I cannot tell you how much I detest karaoke but I need an out so I say yes.

My reasons for refusing to do karaoke in the past are twofold — the agony of hearing other people sing and the agony of singing myself. I’ve seen it on holiday and never understood the appeal of watching a sunburnt side of ham drunk on 2-for-1 cocktails murder Rod Stewart’s Sailing. And yet, 30 minutes after we arrive, you can’t prize the mic out of my hands.

It’s rare I get to say this, but I think the problem was I was never drunk enough to appreciate karaoke before, and how much fun it is to roar the (incorrect) lyrics to The Spice Girls’ Wannabe at a group of people who are pretty much locked in a blacked-out bunker with you.

So, my inaugural karaoke bar trip was educational. I learned that given the right amount of lady petrol you can get anyone to sing so hard they burst blood vessels, and at the end of the night you might not be able to remember your postcode for the taxi, but you can recall every word of Return of The Mack.