LUV & HAT

LUV - Look, I don’t know a lot about skin. I’m not a botanist. But I do know that while my skin generally looks like the surface of a cup of milky tea that’s been left to stand for slightly too long, there are days when it looks as though I’ve ordered too much pepperoni. Then deep-fried the pepperoni with some old cheese and thrown the whole greasy mess onto the face of someone with bad skin.

On those days, I take my face to the experts.

The experts live in a place called the spa, which is the cleanest, whitest place in all the land - like a Fortress of Solitude for Aryans - where everyone speaks in whispers. A woman will appear and introduce herself, and I will instantly forget her name because she’ll suddenly be one millimetre from my face, tutting things like:

* “Your skin is very congested” - this means that my face is bubbling with pus.

* “You’ve some age damage there” - this means that I am very ancient.

* “I can see someone enjoyed the summer” - this means that I am made of mahogany, and also that the woman is a cow.

Whatever the diagnosis, I must whip my top off (so really it’s like any trip to the dentist), lie on a couch and close my eyes. 

There follows a lovely, langorous sensory dream.

Cold things are swept soothingly across my face, then hot, cleansing things are pressed against it, then a series of oils (citrusy and acrid, floral and exotic) are massaged into it. Then the extractions begin. This is where my pimples, whiteheads, blackheads and basically any raised bump on my face - including my nose - are squeezed with archaeological diligence and absolute, merciless disregard for the human pain threshold.

After turning my head precisely 37.5 degrees to the left the woman leaves me alone in the dark with a steam machine gently puh-puh-puhing onto me. Finally she returns to give me a swooningly blissful face and neck massage for exactly not long enough to be properly relaxing, and I’m done.

Apart from slightly clearer, redder skin and a slightly emptier, sadder wallet, the actual benefits of a facial elude me. However I will return in a couple of months because I know what I’m like. I don’t drink enough water, I’ll pretty much do anything if someone says it makes me look rested, and I’m always putting too much pepperoni on my face.

Incidentally, I am talking about spa facials here and not the other kind of facial. Although the other kind may also work wonders on your skin. Who can say?

Oh. don’t answer that.
- Robyn Wilder

HAT - I’m not sure if I’m actually qualified to HAT on facials. I think I had a facial. I underwent 60 minutes of agony, and then left the premises with several gouges across my face, which took ten days to fade away. Did I have a facial? Or was I a Saw VI research project? For the purposes of this, let’s assume it was the former. 

(As with most of my life mistakes, this was a result of Groupon) 

It went like this: 

[My mind and I enter the room together. We first lie the wrong way round on the bed, only to have The Facialiser point out that there’s a reason all the blood is rushing to my head and my mind and I are idiots.] 

Facialiser: *Silence* 

[The lights are turned off. For maximum sensory deprivation, some cotton pads are placed over my eyes. ] 

Facialiser: *Silence* 

[A vacuum starts. It sounds like a Henry. The sound of shoddy hoovering begins - that sound  when you’re trying to hoover up something that’s clearly too big to fit, because you can’t be bothered to bend down and pick it up. In this case, the oversized item in question sounds like MASSIVE ROCKS] 

My mind: Shit.  

[The vacuum comes closer] 

Facialiser: *Silence* 

My mind: Seriously - shit.  

[It is indeed MASSIVE ROCKS stuck in the hoover. I know this because these are now being scraped across my face. Repeatedly. Again. And Again. And Again.] 

My mind: FUCKINGGROUPOOOOOOOOON 

Time passes. It may be three hours. It is more likely three minutes. 

[Facialiser leaves the room. The previously bland panpipe CD suddenly turns it up a notch with a bizarre panpipe version of the Star Spangled Banner] 

My mind: She’s gone. Where has she gone? I’ve had some dreadful reaction. I probably look like a salted slug, my skin bubbling, having a horrible reaction with whatever gunk she just slapped on my face. I’m pretty sure I’m bleeding rivers of blood. Oh, the burn, the burn. She’s obviously gone to call a supervisor. And an ambulance. And a lawyer.  

Yeah, she’s going to need a fucking lawyer.  

[Facialiser returns to the room. Still she is silent, apparently unwilling to talk about the rivers of blood. A massage begins. It is awful - as if my shoulders have tried to steal her boyfriend, and she is here to exact revenge. And it involves aromatherapy]

My mind: What’s that smell? Sandalwood? Huh. Suddenly I feel quite angry.  Kind of… punchy. Why am I so angry? Fucking world. I hate the world.

(Sandalwood = the olfactory soundtrack - smelltrack? - to my teenage life. I was a BIG fan of oil burners. And incense. And pretty much anything you could get in the Guildford head shop)

[Facialiser leaves the room with a finality that suggests she’s done, leaving my mind and I to lie there, in shock, in pain, but not, as it turns out, in rivers of blood.]

My mind: What. The Fuck. Just Happened.

FADE TO BLACK

I do not understand you people that have facials.
- Susi Weaser

LUV - WEEEEEEE! I’m on me holibags!

I’ve got some weird plastic things on my feet and I’m clomping down a dusty, semi-derelict avenue to the beach. I’m not sure how women wear these things throughout every summer, but hey, when in - how do you pronounce this place again?

I’m wearing my - how you say - “shades”, which I bought for two groats (or whatever currency it is they use here) and which I will almost certainly never touch again once this week is over.

So I’m wearing my shades, and my plastic sandal things - oh, and my shorts! In this country they have weather you can flash your legs at! Now, I’ll admit I’m momentarily dismayed that it’s slightly cruel to be faced with an entire, borderline Amazonian female population slinking around in bikinis while I waddle about feeling extremely unnatural and looking like a man constructed entirely of uncooked chicken.

Sure, the thought occurs that if there was a God there would be some way, some how, of placing these women, looking like this, in the same vicinity as me, wearing whatever it is I wear when I look halfway decent; as opposed to them being plonked in a location where I am seemingly unable to raise my wardrobe game above the level marked “Unsuccessful Chuckle Brothers auditionee”.

But you know what helps you get over that? BEACH BARS. There’s one, over there! Actually, what time is it? Later than 11am? I will have one of your fine, unpronouncable beers my good man, and- oh, I don’t even have to ask for it to be poured into a glass with a handle, pulled straight from the freezer, do I? Because you just do that here! I FUCKING LOVE YOU.

That was delicious, and has made me feel all giddy. Know what’s good for that? A lie down. But where can I go for such a thing?

Tum-te-tum-te-tum. I AM NOW LYING DOWN.

Time for a bikini-watch.

Bikini. Bikini. Bikini. Bikinibikini. Bikinibikinibikinibikinibikini. Bikini. Bikini. Bik-

Oh dear - I just remembered one downside of the beach bar. I need some kind of urinatory outlet.

Hey, what’s that massive pile of water ahead of me? Who left that there? What a stroke of luck! WEEEEEEEE!
- Stuart Waterman

HAT - Argh, beach holidays. Beach holidays are for people that find sitting in the burning sun delightful, getting sand in their crack a pleasure and blinding themselves whilst they try to read with the sun in their eyes a joy. Beach holidays are for masochists.

It’s a seldom admitted fact that anyone who books a beach holiday realises within 500 metres of the sea what a tedious bore the whole process is. I’ve yet to spend a day on the beach that hasn’t ended in me stomping off around midday, hot, sweaty and dreaming of a week on a narrow boat.

It’s hateful, from start to finish. First, you have to pick a spot - if it’s in Europe you have to avoid having naked Europeans in your direct eyesight. If it’s in the US, you have to avoid the cast of Dawson’s Creek smugly cavorting in the sand. And if it’s in South East Asia, you have to avoid the adorable children trying to sell you bracelets, because these adorable children will switch to a chant of ‘You have AIDS’ when you refuse to buy their tat.

Then you lie in the sun, trying to remember how much fun you’re having, and how fucking relaxed you are. But, shit! You forgot to put sun cream on your thighs! Now commences a 20 minute ordeal, which is essentially you massaging various bits of your body that do not normally see sunlight, in direct view of naked Europeans, Pacey and Katie Holmes or South East Asian kids shouting about how you have AIDS. Relaxing!

But enough of this lying about. Time to tackle your “beach reading”. This is when it becomes apparent that the days you spent compiling your ultimate holiday reading list were a complete waste of time, since THERE IS NO COMFORTABLE WAY TO READ A BOOK ON THE BEACH. On your back? Sore arms, possible risk of blindness from staring at the sun. On your front? Sore back, possible risk of skin cancer because inevitably you missed a bit on your back when you were applying the sun cream.

Food! That’s what this experience is missing! It’s about now that you decide to nip up to the beach bar to buy supplies.

Food shopping on the beach is where your dignity goes to die - imagine wandering around Tescos in bare dirty feet, wearing your bra and a sheet slung around your waist. There is a woman by my office who I have seen shit in an empty Big Mac wrapper; even she has more dignity than this. And yet on holiday? Wandering around buying Lemon Fanta in your bikini is a sign of how away from the real world you are. I’d like to remind you - for that cashier, this is her real world. Her hateful, boring, real real world. Have some consideration.

There’s more, of course - there’s the ice cream run, where everyone’s order involves “whatever the Spanish version of [insert proper British ice delight] is”. There’s the stalemate, as you try to leave but are challenged by that person that believes that the success of a holiday is measured by the number of hours spent in the sun. There’s that bit at the end of the day where you get in the shower and are suddenly in crippling agony, as the warm water hits the bit you didn’t even know was sunburnt.

And then you get home, and THE FUCKING SAND IS EVERYWHERE. Beach holidays, you suck.
- Susi Weaser

LUV -  This LUV is dedicated to you: Winkleman, Claudia.
It’s a little bit mental, but could have been much bawdier;
For while your fringe never fails to stoke furious debate,
When you peek from beneath it you quicken my heart rate.

Your makeup lends you an ocular smoulder,
Which you maintain even when offering your shoulder
To a colleague who’s weeping, for she’s had a bad day -
Your sympathy and wisdom wipe away her dismay.

Then a look is exhanged, and a charge fills the air,
As your trembling lips meet and she touches your hair

There’s intelligence and humour in all that you say,
(And the thrill of some filth is never far away)
You’re the kind of woman all the ladies want to be like,
On their knees in the night saying prayers in the streetlight.

You are kind to waiters, and lovely to your cleaner,
You charm Post Office staff with your friendly demeanour.
A tourist needs directions, and you offer them clearly,
Then you wish her a nice day, smiling sincerely.

She invites you to her hotel, and

Your banter with Danny Leigh on Film 2011
Is badinage beamed down from repartee heaven.
You are honest about films you find you detest,
As the directors of Hall Pass shall surely attest.

Your appeal spans from high brow to low,
From artsy discussion to gaudy gameshow.
You swear on Twitter about things you enjoy -
Oh for you to curse at this ode, by this boy.
- Stuart Waterman

HAT - I don’t hate Claudia Winkleman, obviously. No one could hate her. She’s clearly lovely.

What I hate is men’s reactions to Claudia Winkleman.

She makes previously normal functioning adults into poetry spewing, dewy-eyed morons. The worry is that whilst poetry is vomitous but fairly harmless, it is at one end of a scale - the scale that ends with spending your life savings on financing a film about a local Welsh boy done good, purely because you think it will end in your eventual interview on Film 2015, with the lovely Claudia Winkleman.

But the sad fact of the matter is, whilst you’ve spent the last four years bringing this kitchen sink masterpiece to fruition, Claudia has been investing in her own career. Much to the world’s amazement, she convinced the head of the BBC to recommission her previous show, ‘Toilets’, which when originally aired in 2004, had the winning tagline “It’s a dirty job, but Claudia’s going to do it”. Looking at the design, etiquette, scandal and (bizarrely) cinema of the loo, it’s proven to be a surprise hit for the BBC, with many declaring it the reason they pay their licence fee.

So now what? You’ve got an award winning movie, but still no interview with Claudia Winkleman. There is only one thing for it: become the UK’s largest importer of state of the art Japanese toilets.

Also, I have been informed that to many young men, she looks like a sexy camel.

Claudia Winkleman: sexualising camels and inspiring Japanese toilet wholesaling since 1972.
- Susi Weaser

LUV - In case you didn’t know, Mark Watson is an unassuming but award-winning UK comedian and novelist. But, in order to fully appreciate his awesomeness, we must first examine his key constituents. These are they.

THE ADVERT
It’s a general rule that, if you’re a comedian and you do a TV advert, Guardian writers will slate you in the first page of the Guide and everyone will hate you forever. Just look at Peter Kay, or the Budweiser WATHAP chameleons. But Mark Watson can shamble his way through this unmemorable series of cider adverts  and it only adds to his considerable rambling charm.

THE FAKE ACCENT
As we have learned from Dexter Fletcher in Pressgang, there’s something a bit shifty about someone with a fake accent. But Mark Watson adopts a Welsh accent for all his stand-up, and it works for him:

The oddest thing about Watson’s act is that he delivers it all in a Welsh accent. He isn’t Welsh, although his family is. He’s from Bristol, and talks, by his own admission, like a “middle-class, well-educated, nicely spoken white boy”. But a Welsh accent, he argues, makes an instant impression in comedy clubs. And a positive impression, too - because it wrongfoots a British audience’s inverse snobbery.

And this is because Mark Watson, like Idris Elba from The Wire or Dominic West from the Wire, or Aidan Gillen from The Wire, knows that a fake accent can do a lot for your credibility.

THE YOUNG SOCIALLY-AWARE SCRUFFY PERSON
Look at you. You’re youngish, socially-awareish, and scruffy (sorry, but you are. It’s plain that you haven’t even ironed those jeans). And Mark Watson is like you - he wears crumpled T-shirts, eats sandwiches and, I dunno, probably uses public transport. But did you cut your teeth in the Cambridge Footlights? Have you written three novels and a television drama? Have you seriously attempted to halve your carbon footprint? Have you been nominated for a Perrier comedy award? Well, have you?

Mark Watson has. And he’s only four.

But you can’t hate him because he tells jokes like “Well, as my dad used to say, ‘money: you can’t take it with you.’ Which led to some pretty boring holidays”.

And if you don’t think that’s funny, just imagine it in a fake Welsh accent. Yeeeaaah. There you go.
- Robyn Wilder

HAT - I don’t know who Mark Watson is, but I hate him.

OK, now I’ve checked Wikipedia. And I still hate him. And here’s why:

Mark Watson is a leading expert on empirical macroeconomics, an area of economics so boring that I’ve had to staple my eyelids to my eyebrows and take East London horse amphetamines just to stay awake long enough to write this bit about it.

Oh, I think I’ve read about the wrong Mark Watson. Hang on.

OK, I’ve checked again. Here’s why I hate Mark Watson, the English Comedian:

Mark Watson, the child, won ‘Gabbler of the year’ at his grammar school. This is a made-up prize that smacks of unbearable liberal educational ideals. I thought they were supposed to still employ corporal punishment in grammar schools? Clearly not when Mark Watson is involved. The cocklantern.

Mark Watson went to Cambridge and got a First Class Degree. This means he completely wasted his time at University, probably never even auditioned for University Challenge because he was too busy applying himself even though he probably would have nailed it, effectively spitting in Jeremy Paxman’s face. The assmushroom.

Mark Watson has performed a show in Edinburgh that went on for 24 hours. James Franco has taught me that if anything is to be done for more than 4 hours consecutively, you have to saw off a body part to keep it entertaining. Based on the fact that 127 hours equals one arm, 24 hours must equal an ear, pointing finger or bottom lip.  Mark Watson still has all of these appendages. The dickchalice.

(Sorry for making you think about a face without a bottom lip)

Mark Watson proposed to his girlfriend at the end of this 24 hour show. FUCK. ME. WHATACUNT.

Mark Watson appeared in adverts for Magners Pear Cider, and whilst I have no objection to comedians selling their comedic soul for the promise of dirty, dirty money, I do object to Magners Pear Cider. This is generally acknowledged to be the very worst pear cider on the market, tasting rather more like the stuff dogs sometimes get leaking from their bums when they have intestinal issues than anything resembling pears. It should be called Dog Bum Cider.  

I suppose what we’ve learned here is Mark Watson: bad. Magners Pear Cider: worse.
- Susi Weaser

LUV - Book clubs are excellent, but I think we’d all agree they suffer from a perception problem. Namely, the perception that they are held by girls who wear nothing but Cath Kidston, who discuss nothing but Jane Austen novels, whilst drinking nothing but those stupid drinks that have names like Elderflower Collins on the Diamonds and Lemongrass Bellini Twisty Pants.

I suggest a rebranding exercise. Let’s get Deloitte Consulting on their ass.

Let’s start by calling them Book Gangs. Gangs have an altogether more menacing sound (if you ignore both the Sharks and the Jets, who between them almost succeeded in killing off the menace of gangs through the medium of dance) and the Daily Mail hates them. And if you want to be cool, you need to make sure you’re on the HAT list of the Daily Mail.

In fact, let’s get a job swap going with the Knife Gangs. The gatherings of people who are fans of knives can become clubs, whilst those wanting to sit down to discuss The Life of Pi can gang the fuck up.

As a gang, their behaviour will have to change slightly. Turf will have to be established - they’re going to have to take over a corner of a local pub, looking menacingly at anyone that approaches them without brandishing a Penguin Classic in plain site. There will be a hierarchy, based on who can read the fastest, and an obligatory young upstart whose job it will be to try to publicly undermine the leader, by metaphorically stabbing in the face their argument as to why Patrick Bateman really wasn’t that bad a chap.

A book gang will also require a climactic scene, where they will fight to the death/final chapter against another rival book gang. Verbal death-punches will be thrown, over a suitably non-menacing soundtrack such as Singing In The Rain. It’s JUXTAPOSITION, yeah?

Finally, as a key gang member perishes under the unspeakable book violence, the remaining members will have to get remembrance tattoos on their faces. I suggest the little Penguin symbol (and a hope that not too many other people go the same way, for fear of looking like you have the cast of Happy Feet parading across your face).

Oh, and they should carry guns.
- Susi Weaser

HAT – Book clubs. Rigid little huddles of women, all clutching a Stieg Larsson paperback, corralled into a very particular set of protocols by someone invariably called Penny who wears hiking boots and frowningly whips out a home-laminated, Comic Sans-heavy QUIET PLEASE BOOK CLUB IN PROGRESS!!! sign every time someone at the other end of the pub even coughs. God, how dreary.

Book clubs. Where you’re set a series of books to read – “something clever” (The Fountainhead), “something important and life-affirming” (My Struggle as a Marginalised Minority in an Oppressive Regime or War Wherein I Lose More than You Could Ever Imagine Possessing but Gain a Unique yet Universally Applicable Perspective on Everything), “a classic” (Austen), “something edgy” (Amis) or “something just for fun” (Marian Keyes). You’re set these books and then you have to go home and read them. Whether you want to or not. Ugh.

Book clubs. Where you have to come back and talk about these books you’ve been forced to read, sometimes while drinking small glasses of quite bad wine. You’ll trot out a platitude. Someone called Samantha will say “it’s interesting that you say that, because” then say something utterly dull that misses the point of the entire book. Others will also say dull things, or nervously repeat the dull things they’ve just heard, until the least socially-adept member of the book club asks if any of you have read any Terry Pratchett because he’s brilliant, and then you all have to stare at your own knees until she stops talking. How unremittingly awful.

Book clubs. The inspiration for the 2002 Channel 4 comedy The Book Group, starring James Lance from Spaced and Green Wing’s Michelle Gomez, which was actually really good. How obnoxiously funny and innovative.

Book clubs. A book, and some clubs. What a travesty.

Book clubs. Which would be so much better if Penny used her multiple coats, fleeces and backpacks - and dogged tenacity - to reserve a corner of a pub where you could all meet to spend a couple of hours not bloody talking about reading, but actually reading. Any book you fancied reading.

Imagine it. No one would talk unless they were going to the bar. How wonderful that would be: two hours of your week prioritised for dedicated, peaceful, ensemble free-reading. But book clubs aren’t like that, are they? How fucking tedious.

Although I will concede that guns would improve things.
- Robyn Wilder

LUV - Here is what tattoos say about a person:

A) I refuse to acknowledge that I will one day be old.
I would only ever admit this on the internet (a part of the world inaccessible to my mother) but ma was right - my tattoos are going to look shit when I’m old. Show me an old person who looks good with tattoos, and I will show you a unicorn. They are similarly easy to come by. However, tattoos are a handy shorthand for recognising a kindred spirit, that person who plans as far as the next big birthday ending in -0 and truly believes they’re going to invent some kind of painless tattoo removal machine before ink fade, skin sag and the need to mush up all food becomes an issue. Tattooed people are optimists.

B) Once, I did something really painful.
There’s no need to labour the point once you’ve had a tattoo - you’re well ‘ard. So what if you cried this morning because you accidentally headbutted the corner of the bathroom cabinet, because some complete previous owner moron put it exactly where all normal people put their heads. And that you are a whiner as soon as you get the merest hint of ache in any body part. And that similarly to the tattoo remover, you vow never to have children until they invent an alternative childbirth machine that involves magic. Doesn’t matter. You’re ‘ard. 

C) I like stuff. A lot.
Enough to get it written on me forever. Not only does this show a total disregard for the human condition - the constant flux of feelings, the inevitable sense of lack of control as circumstances conspire to bring you ever closer and ever further away to your deepest desires and darkest fears, but also: it’s stupid. The best you can hope for is that each tattoo represents a time in your life, and that you look back fondly on that time (that time when you had a total hard on for Chinese characters, for instance). Still, you’ve got to admire the tattooed person’s commitment to Stuff.

And now, I’m off to Camden to get YOUR NEXT tattooed on my face.
- Susi Weaser

HAT - Here are some other things that tattoos say about a person:

A) I have a long boring story about my tattoo
And I will tell it to you in immense detail until you cry. No, don’t get another drink or look away, I’M TALKING TO YOU. Unfailingly this long boring story will begin with:

“When I was in Thailand….”

OR

“I had this boyfriend/friend/dog that died, and…”

OR

“If I believe one thing in life, it’s….”

In fact, I’m almost totally convinced that people only get tattoos so that they can tell you about the circumstances around them getting a tattoo (that is, apart from that guy who, when I asked who’d done his tattoo, simply said “tattooist”).

Hey, oversharing tattoo fans, here’s an idea! Why not cut out the middleman and get a tattoo that says “ASK ME ABOUT MY TATTOO”? Eh? Eh?

B) I’m not picky
In the movie Clueless, Alicia Silverstone’s character defends her virginity by saying “You see how picky I am about my shoes and they only go on my feet.” Tattoonistas, whereas, will blithely squat in some rank beach hut while a scrawny crackhead with unwashed hands and a manky roll-up clamped between his grey teeth emblazons their dermis with the synographic legend “WESTERN ASS WHORE INFIDEL” using a rusty needle. I’M NOT JUDGING I’M JUST SAYING.

C) I am a beautiful and unique snowflake
No, you are. No one else has had ANGEL tramp-stamped across their lumbar, have they, eh? And no one else has had a crazy Celtic barbed wire thingy wrapped around one of their biceps (“because my mum’s from Liverpool so she must be a bit Irish, stands to reason”), a small cross (that looked really good for a year then became a sort of bluey-grey smudge) imprinted on the inside of their wrist, or a flowery plant growing up their back or across their foot, wings on their shoulder blades (“COS I’M A RIGHT DEVIL LOL”), a small star on their ankle or the tiniest tiny weeny tiny dot on their belly because it’s like, the Earth, but from a long way away? No one else has ever done any of that. You rebel, you.

D) I’m never ever going to change my mind EVER
Your university girlfriend’s full name. That Levellers symbol. That “ironic” swastika. Those things are going to stay with you forever. How are you okay with that? To have something permanently inked on to you must take the sort of rigidity of mind that I can barely contemplate. I mean, I’ve changed my mind about four times since starting writing this. In fact, so flighty are my whims that I am now DEFINITELY GOING TO GET A TATTOO. Because there are actually some beautifully realised ones out there, so I’ll probably get a sort of crest made of a unicorn and my dog Laddie that died, because if I believe one thing in life, it’s—

—Oh. Ugh.
- Robyn Wilder

LUV - When the caveman who invented human song did so - and, let’s face it, probably got into the loincloth of some cavewench as a result - nobody turned around and went, “Ug! That’s shit! Never ugging do that again!”

No. It caught on, big time. And humans have been singing ever since. The word “karaoke” evokes pubs with sticky floors and over-earnest, under-tuneful renditions of The Greatest Love Of All. But in essence, it’s just singing. And here’s the thing: singing feels great and is good for your soul. Man.

I’ve witnessed many, many karaoke sessions, and I love seeing the transformation in people. Previously shy (or supercilious) folk become obsessed. Supposedly cool people reveal their real, true, passionate love for REO Speedwagon. It’s these folk, the ones who didn’t think they were going to enjoy themselves, who you have trouble wrenching the microphone from.

If you’re doing karaoke, nobody involved ever, ever, ever wants it to end. Nobody ever goes “well, only 5 minutes left, shall we go?” You always have to be prompted to leave by the poor sods running the show. Sure, booze is a factor in this, but it’s the great feeling of singing your big stupid head off that hooks you.

I’m sure people who refuse to give it a go get the same feeling from other activities. Indeed, they probably look at people like me and think: “Look, just go for a run, or a swim, or something, anything that means I don’t have to listen to you murder Bohemian Rhapsody again.”

Which is kind of fair enough, except the euphoria you get from things like that is rarely shared with a bunch of other folk. Folk who, like you, will wake up in the morning giggling like a toddler at the fact that they even attempted Ice Ice Baby.
- Stuart Waterman

HAT - I’ve got lots of friends that love karaoke. And I really value my friends. But when they suggest karaoke, I start thinking about that bit in Total Recall where Arnold Schwarzenegger is stuck on Mars and the air pressure almost makes his brain explode. At that moment, I truly, deeply want that to happen to them.

I’m not tone deaf - I’ve seen tone deaf in movies, and it falls into the inexplicably endearing camp (see Cameron Diaz-face in My Best Friend’s Wedding). I’m worse - I’m the girl that tries her best, but really, really can’t sing (it’s the trying bit that’s so heartbreaking - you see it a lot on My Super Sweet Sixteenth). If I went on X Factor, I’d only get a 5 second cutaway on X Factor Extra, and that would only be because I’d fall over when walking into the studio, which, combined with my very poor attempt at singing a Billy Joel song, would make it sufficient to add to the ‘people that can’t walk into a studio’ montage.

I once went to Tokyo, where I was told EVERYONE does karaoke. It appeared there was nothing to it but to down my sake and try to get into the spirit. The song I chose to pop my karaoke cherry? You Are 16 Going On 17 from The Sound of Music.

It took 13 seconds before both me and the person I was singing with (unknown colleague, rather than forgiving friend) realised simultaneously: 1) we didn’t remember the tune. 2)  The song was not a small amount really fucking creepy. 3) Half a pint of sake was in no way enough to make this fun. 4) We still had 3 minutes of singing left, and those around us had started checking their phones in that way that people do when they wish they were anywhere but sitting listening to people mumble their way through a song originally sung by a Nazi guard and a spoilt Austrian girl called Liesl.

I want karaoke to get brain pressure on Mars and die.
- Susi Weaser