Karaoke Fever

Does anyone else have a karaoke fantasy?

A smokey bar in NYC's Village. A brutish man with a wailing voice is dissecting Neil Diamond's Cracklin' Rosie with scalpel precision. For reasons unknown to the sober the whole bar is drinking Soco and lime in unisoned memory suspension. The bestial man finishes the slaughter of the innocents, and his place is taken on the low-slung stage by a young woman who gives a passable performance of Alannah Myles's Black Velvet, if you please.

You draw the smokey air down into your heavy lungs as you leaf through the tattered karaoke menu. Page after page of Elvis, Beatles, and Britney present themselves like whales in a barrel, but you want something more and you'd like to help yourself - so you settle for The Smiths What Difference Does it Make - Marr's obsessive, rakish guitar line cutting through the NYC evening like a Siren song. Languid, yet poised, you nonchalantly survey the room, balancing your weight on one hip, before proclaiming, "All men have secrets and here is mine, so let it be known," your eyes flashing the dangerous desire of a fully loaded popstar. A little whip of the mic cable banishes the DJ back to his corner to watch in awe as you mesmerise the assembled throng into an anticipatory lather before releasing them with a hip grinding, "But I'm still fond of you, oh oh, oooooohhhhh,".

And pity the fool who tries to follow you with My Way....