Apocalypse Party Hits

For a split second I imagine a post-Armageddon, nuclear-fallout-influenced, cyberpunk world.

In front of the kitchen pass, behind an untidy cable-orgy, stands a crusty poster boy for decades-long abuse of fake tan, chain smoking, staring at his laptop screen and then at the flatscreen on the wall, waiting for the song to end.

To his far right a woman drunkenly sways, shrieking like a mutated, diseased Whitney Houston, “And ay-ee-ay-ee-ay will always luv yoo-oo-oo-oo…”

The fake-tan-man’s dead eyes move across to her, ash drooping impotently from the butt between his lips, to stare unimpressed at her efforts.

After a particularly bad night I’d thought watching people act like tits at the weekly Wednesday karaoke sessions down Long Street Café would make me feel better. At first I’d thought the available table right up front was a boon.

One song into it and I was reminded of God’s sick sense of humour.

As I sip my drink I wonder if maybe a radiation ravaged planet might be an improvement, or at the very least the booming explosion could soothe the ears a bit.

With no service to speak of I shuffle over to the bar, praying that in my absence the table will be snatched up and I’ll have an excuse to leave.

But no, it awaits my return, and like a rubbernecker at an accident scene I sit back down in twisted anticipation for the next corpse to be pulled from the mangled wreck.

My eyes follow theirs to the flatscreen. And as they belt it out I sing along in my head the badly translated words to Robbie Williams’ Feel – “Just can’t understand… this rope I’ve been given…”

The background images on the screen could be the boring bits of early Nineties soft porn, until someone stands up to sing something from Bob Marley and a bunch of girls on the screen in firemen’s outfits get their baps out.

This distracts the wailing punter and he fucks up the words.

The table behind me, a large group of fifteen or so, are choosing songs for each other. Soon enough the guys are up there, clammy hands fumbling the microphone, stuttering Britney Spears and Backstreet Boys into the giggling crowd.

An underage couple, possibly on a first date, sing the inevitable Grease Medley to each other. She’s clearly more into it than him, and she grins through shiny braces as he mumbles the Travolta bits.

All the while the crinkly, crispy controller smokes at least two packs of Texan Plain.

I don’t sing, but in the wake of all the care-free abandon and lack of self-consciousness surrounding me I think maybe I could.

Karaoke takes either balls or alcohol, and I imagine getting up there and making an arse out of oneself must be kind of liberating.

It seems most people only face their fears when it makes them look cool – bungi jumping or jumping in the ocean with sharks – but standing in front of a crowd knowing you sound like a couple of bulldogs porking and serenading no one in particular is about as extreme and scary as it comes.

Intentionally making a fool of yourself in public shows true courage.

Maybe when the world ends we’ll all just think, fuck it, and sing.