Carry on karaoke

Tonight we went to Family Karaoke Box in the Cuppage Plaza. That sounds like a filthy, rotten thing to do, but strangely the Family Karaoke Box in the Cuppage Plaza is one of the least filthy things in that area; or at least it's not a cloud of scantily dressed prostitutes looking for trade.

It's just a labyrinth of rooms full of people singing ineptly, while a bad tempered staff ferry buckets of beer from behind a counter to each gang of singers. While we sat in our room and I belted out Ludacris' rap from Justin Bieber's "Baby" we could only hear the terrible noises emanating from our mouths. When I got up and walked to the toilets (which were signposted by silhouettes of a man and a woman wearing hats) the terrible din, like a Lovecraftian shuggoth powered by music, battered my senses.

Still, we survived intact. Not everyone does. I was running this morning through Clarke Quay and I saw a man lying on some steps next to Brewerks, face down next to a smear of dried vomit, the rest of the vomit across the seat of his pants. At least I hope it was his vomit. Perhaps the poor man had lain down for a nap and somebody else had chucked up all over him.

I was going to shake him awake and check he was ok, but I imagine that if you were to awake, covered in somebody else's vomit, with a man in a nylon vest shaking you, you might get enraged, even if you didn't have a hangover. So rather than be a good Samaritan, I ran on. I hope he's ok. I hope he does his own laundry.

Nobody threw up over themselves or anyone tonight. Well, none of us did, anyway. I shouted myself hoarse ruining an Oasis song or two, and we drank some beer, but there was no puking. I put my neck out singing too hard, but hopefully a good night's sleep will cure that and I can work on my cockroach material tomorrow.