Friday was the pub. Saturday was the club. Yesterday, Cliffey's birthday weekend bonanza thing culminated in a rather disappointing karaoke session.
Allow me to explain. Having watched the musical episode of Scrubs earlier in the day I was in the mood for some singing, and as usual it didn't take much to convince me. After some deliberation I put my name down to sing There Is A Light That Never Goes Out, my version of which will now unfortunately never be heard because some bright spark decided that the Varsity crowd would rather see a woman perform a striptease to Living On A Prayer ("Woooah, we're naked I sweaaar/Woooah, livin' on a prayer!") than hear a Smiths classic butchered by my trembling baritone.
Tom was also upset - partially because the woman didn't get as far as taking her bra off, but mostly because we missed out on his rendition of Millennium. Perhaps it was the establishment's way of telling us that we should have pooled our efforts and done Independent Women instead.
There was that guy singing My Old Man's A Dustman. In a way that kind of validated the whole night.
Joel.
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