Friday, September 16, 2005

Argh: never drink tea with milk that was use-by last Sunday when you have a hangover. So last night there was beer. There was Saige. And beer. And St Jerome's. Did I mention there was beer? And then there was a bar with my erstwhile colleagues celebrating their latest circulation increase. There was beer at that bar. It was Coopers. And then there was karaoke. At Charlton's. With beer. There was Saige. Oh, there was Saige.

The DJ was that bald fat guy called Jarrod (?) whom Charlton's aficionados may recognise as the guy who likes to wow the audience with mid-90s R&B ballads and bring his girlfriends up for sappy duets. (Last night was "Endless Love".) I can't bear him because he takes karaoke seriously, like the Australian Idol judges are in the audience, whereas I do it for fun and try never to do the same song twice.

So I did "Leave, Get Out" by JoJo, which I used to know off by heart from repeatedly listening to my housemate's So Fresh: The Hits of Spring 2004 album. But I knew the tune, not the wailing parts. Only dicks like Jarrod know the wailing. However, the screen was really unhelpful on this front. No joke: at one stage the entire screen said something like this:
Wo wo wo wo wo
Oh oh oh oh oh
you and me
wo wo wo wo wo
wo wo wo wo wo

Stupid screen. I was reduced to actually saying it in a grave voice, like David Bowie repeating his sung lyrics in "Ashes to Ashes". At the end Jarrod said in the microphone, "Let's give it up for Melllll, with a rather unusual version of that song." Fuck you, Jarrod! He will never know the aching wittiness of shouting "Instrumental! Eight measures!" in a furious rock voice.

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