saturation point, but here I am.
The next bottle of wine tastes even better than the last and the banana fritters arrive. Across the restaurant, we spy a couple on a date. They’re holding hands across the table. We titter. Their peace and quiet is about to be shattered gloriously. The waiters clear the top table and a large screen descends. Realisation dawns on the happy couple, as the word ‘Karaoke’ displays on the screen.
‘You’ve had your dinner,’ I raise my glass to Karen. ‘Now, here’s the show!’
I snatch a microphone and laminated song book from a passing waitress and clear my throat. Let the games begin! There’s no need to consult the book, that’s for amateurs. I don’t mean to brag, but you have my permission to describe me as a karaoke master if you like. If they ever start giving out black belts for karaoke, I’ll be the first in line. I scrawl my choice on a scrap of paper and thrust it into the hand of our waiter. As Dr Phil says, ‘This ain’t my first rodeo.’
Karen scribbles her selection and returns her attention to the cocktail menu. She orders two Cosmos and claims that they are for Dutch courage. The big moment is upon us. The opening lines of ‘Don’t You Want Me Baby’ by The Human League appear on the screen.
‘You were working as a waitress in a cocktail bar,’ warbles Karen, ‘when I met you.’
The staff exchange uneasy looks and diners shift in their seats. The happy couple have hastily paid their bill and are reaching for their coats. I grab the microphone from Karen for the chorus.
‘Don’t you want me, Barry? Don’t you want me, woah!’
Karen can’t sing any more because she is doubled over with laughter. She drains the last of her Cosmo and orders a Martini in an attempt to recapture our lost youth. I’m hogging the microphone for a passionate rendition of the Beyoncé classic ‘Single Ladies’.
‘If you like it then you shoulda put a ring on it.’
Despite the fact that I’m pointing to my bare left ring finger during the heartfelt performance, the microphone is taken from me at the end. There’s a minor scuffle.
‘Uh-oh. Hashtag awkward!’
‘Shush, Karen.’
We endure a tuneless rendition of Robbie Williams’ ‘Angels’ from the next table. They’re murdering it, so we talk loudly over it. Some people are so tone deaf! I’ve retrieved the microphone, and treat my enchanted audience to a touching duet from ‘Dirty Dancing’. I play the part of Patrick Swayze aka Johnny Castle (quite convincingly, I think) and Karen plays the role of Jennifer Grey aka Baby. Not everyone finds it as hilarious as I do when I repeat ‘Johnny!’ into the microphone and Karen launches herself on top of me. She is, of course, attempting the iconic ‘lift’ from the film.
However, we’re not as graceful as we thought we’d be. This is due to:
1 a) our staggeringly high blood alcohol levels, and
2 b) our lack of an idyllic lake setting.
Sadly, I’m unable to catch Karen, and we both end up under the table. The microphone has been passed along to the next table and I suspect that I may in fact have carpet burn on my bum.
The restaurant is empty now, and the lyrics to ‘All By Myself’ line up. I decide to give it a bash. It’s a bitter and tearful performance. Karen lines up a shot of Sambuca to keep us on our toes. She can no longer pronounce the word ‘hashtag’. Thank Christ. The waitress keeps yawning. It’s such an insult to my art form. Another waitress is stacking chairs and one is polishing the glasses. I suppose that’s what you do at three in the morning.
‘Rack ‘em up,’ garbles Karen incoherently. She’s pointing vaguely to the cocktail menu, and in desperate need of subtitles at this point – even I cannot understand her.
‘Yeah! Surprise us!’
We’ve sampled the full array of beverages, and are unsure of what to order next.
‘Yeah!’ I address the youngest waiter. ‘Use your initiative!’
By the way, ‘initiative’ is an impossible word to get my tongue around.
The screen is blank and the power has been cut from our microphones. I’m tapping ferociously.
‘So many songs are left unsung. We’re only getting started! Hey! You there! You don’t know who you’re dealing with here, buster! I was Gretel Von Trapp in the 1992 school production of The Sound of Music. I had to say “I have a sore finger”. It was critically acclaimed!’
The staff are oblivious to my pleas, and I seem to have spilled my last drink. Since I don’t remember all of the words to ‘My Favourite Things’ or ‘Doe a Deer, a Female Deer’, I drop the subject. Pity, really. Still, this little setback doesn’t dampen our enthusiasm. With tears rolling down my face, I launch into ‘I Wanna Know What Love Is’. This is easily the best Foreigner hit. Who needs a backing track when you’ve a belter pair of lungs and a belly full of heart ache?
The bill, along with two black coffees, is placed on our table. A miniature mint decorates the saucer. Karen is playing air guitar against the backdrop of a Chinese pan pipe version of ‘Lady in Red’. It’s absolutely genius; if only I’d thought of it first. Our long-suffering waiter stands beside us with the pin pad, and we blatantly ignore him. How dare he stifle my creativity? He is raining all over my parade!
‘Would you like a taxi, ladies?’ a little Chinese man offers kindly.
‘How absolutely dare you?’ I snigger.
Karen and I make admissions of undying eternal love to each other. Then we have a Mrs-Doyle-style row over who will pay the bill.
‘Put your money away,’ shouts Karen. ‘Your money’s no good here.’
I produce Barry’s credit card and punch in the pin number with glee.
‘Barry’s treat. Serves him right for not marrying me! Ha-ha!’
Karen has to help me up off the floor because I’ve just realised that I’m possibly the funniest person in the world. Really, I should write this stuff down. I might even win the Perrier Comedy Award some day.
We wave to the staff and promise to return soon. Ling Ling the waitress and I are now soul mates. I’ll send her a Christmas card. I never knew that we were kindred spirits. Karen links my arm as we make our way unsteadily onto the cobblestone pavement, and then bundle into a waiting taxi. It’s with great determination that I finally turn the key in the door. There’s much curtain twitching from that cow next door. I can feel a hangover starting already. This is possibly not a good sign. The house is so still. So silent! I pan around the downstairs – the flat-screen TV, the cream leather couch, and the Shaker-style kitchen. I climb the stairs.
Alone in our king-sized bed, I sob into my duvet, my mascara staining the Egyptian cotton pillow cases.
I would have made a beautiful bride!
