Yesterday I did the lipsync battle ... except that's not technically true.
Yesterday I went out with friends for a birthday and I did a few quiet pre-drinks with a couple of my friends before walking up to the nightclub in question. I didn't walk up in my weird gym getup for obvious reasons (i mean its freezing and i would look a bit crazy in tiny shorts and a bright blue vest) and entered the nightclub. a few beats later after getting my bearings a bit i got dressed into the weird sports get up (see attached) and continued having a few drinks and trying to work out who i was up against. By this point I'm merry, the music is good, and there is enough energy going around for me to comfortably bob around enthusiastically without feeling the paralysing fear I usually feel in clubs, which generally forced me into awkward T-Rex arms doing the wallflower shuffle in a crowd of strangers. I'm still unsure whether it was the quantity of unusual university student drinks - sickly sweet, super cheap, and named things like "Banterlad" - or the fact that with the sports gear on my dignity was gone to the wind and people were going to notice me, so I may as well enjoy myself.
A few slightly cringey photos later (with a couple in their mid 20's photobombing and buying me drinks because they were super nice and/or took pity on the guy dressed up) I awkwardly shuffle up to the DJ area as he announces in a cocky voice that all contestants should come over. I did so and they began taking group photos ... none of which contained me ... that should have been my first clue. I watch the first few acts - which vary from a larger man in a Hawaiian tee shirt doing a half arsed version of "barbie girl," to a full on drag queen strip tease to Ariana Grande's "Dangerous Woman" - it took me a few beats to work out whether it was a drag queen or just a transgender woman who didn't understand make up - and then the DJ says something really peculiar. "That's the end of round one." Now I'm getting really suspicious. I pull the DJ over and ask him whether my name is on the list, he says yes, i ask him why i wasn't included in the first round. Apparently you need to sign in. NO ONE TOLD ME THAT! this DJ has been making obnoxious hype-man announcements all week and he doesn't even make a suggestion about signing in over the microphone.
So I'm standing there, in tiny shorts, a vest that made me feel way too exposed, a sports sweatband, and a leather jacket - not part of the costume just something so i don't feel super weird - trying to consider my next move. The other thing that alarmed me was the use of the term "next round" ... i thought it was only one song. I'd only prepared one song. So i do what any reasonable person does. I dramatically weave through crowds towards the exit, a perfect end to a badly scripted teen drama moment. except when i realise my bag is still in the cloakroom. I scurry back up, claim it impatiently and leave, desperately trying not to make eye contact to the strangers around me as I go. I walk home, a fun combination of self loathing and disappointment at the nightclub for not making it abundantly clear. and try not to think of all my half prepared quips, witty one liners, and performance material as I leave. If i caught anyone noticing me on the way home I'd make a quiet justification "long story" "it was for the lipsync battle" "its for a thing trust me." it was like a really depressing retelling of Cinderella, with me running away from the party at midnight. As I write this I have only just gotten over the immediate impulse to run away to Amsterdam and change my name and start a vaguely dutch job and a new life, pot farmer maybe? clogmaker? basically anything other than prostitute. Maybe i could make my millions rewriting my terrible experiences into sitcom form and sell it to Netflix under a pseudonym.
