John had heard a rumour that someone who attended the Sunday afternoon karaoke session could do with a bit more practice. He turned up early to get a good seat, but when he arrived the club was practically empty. Gradually a crowd built up in the corner by the bar.
The DJ, a happy fellow, was set up and ready to go playing a few tunes. "Come on, who will be first?" he said over the microphone. The crowd in the corner where all enjoying themselves, when the first singer from the crowd went over to sing. Everyone clapped and cheered as he stood and sang "That's Life".
"Very good," thought John, "he doesn’t even need the words."
Next was a lady with a very distinctive voice belting out "Mustang Sally".
"Well, it certainly wasn’t these two that needed practice."
As John sat there he looked around the room, there was an older man in a beige cromby that seemed to be offering people advice on their song choices. The next man that sang "Blue Berry Hill" was what John referred to as a one trick pony. The next woman to sing had a resemblance to Tina Turner, the way she walked up to the mic but hearsay was that she had recently had surgery, as she started to sing a song John had never heard before, a small woman with highlights jumped onto the snooker table and started thrusting her body to the words of "We're Having a Gang Bang" being sung. As John looked on amazed he wasn’t sure if this was a code message for the crowd in the corner as he had already noticed a few bottoms being pinched. Next up was a middle aged man who must have left his skull cap at home as he gyrated to "The Wonder of Jews". As he sang and wiggled a woman ran from the crowd and smothered him in kisses, it was a lucky escape when the music stopped. A young girl was called over, apparently she only attended on special occasions, she had quite a pleasant voice, but John couldn’t help remembering Mrs Overall from Acorn Antiques as she wobbled on her high heels across the club.
John thought he had wasted his time, he saw the man in the cromby go up and whisper to the DJ and a short blonde woman was called up and she murdered a Patsy Cline song. This was the one who needed practice, he was sure of it; he had never been so sure of anything in his life. He could offer no help. He went to the bar and ordered a large whiskey and spoke to the barmaid. He needed another large one when she told him he only had to wait four weeks until they did it all again.