Not proud

Friends, I fear you will no longer think of me in the same way. I have crossed the divide, gone over to the dark side, defected; I am one of them now. I never thought I would, always maintained I was immune to the appeal and was even smug about those more susceptible than I. No longer.
Last night, ladies and gentlemen, I participated in karaoke. I write this from somewhere underneath a stonking hangover, blurred scenes from the evening's revels flitting through my aching cranium, trying to reject those memories too ridiculous to possibly be accurate but failing, because they are and there are witnesses. Chief crimes against humanity included 'Tubthumping', delivered, inexplicably, in an R&B-stylee croon; 'Do the Locomotion' (yes, the Kylie version, and no, we weren't in the Blue Oyster Bar) and (God help me) 'The Final Countdown'. I also seem to recall finding myself, presumably after the last shred of shame had departed, genuinely disappointed by the absence of Dirty Dancing's 'Time of My Life' from the menu. I am not proud. However, even if it did necessitate drinking until I couldn't see, surprisingly enough it still wasn't as terrible as I'd imagined. And of course it's also hernia-inducingly funny watching other very drunk people do it, although I realise the restaurant staff may well not agree on that one.
Off to explore Melbourne some more today, seems less imposing and a bit more low-key than Sydney so far. More soon. 'til next time.