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Each year when it gets to July, I regress to childhood again, don my party hat and dress (well suit and tie these days…) and get ready to celebrate my birthday. Reaching my 38th year on Planet Lez, only to discover a new wrinkle or three has slightly tarnished the excitement I usually feel the week before the big day. Undeterred, I still feel something special at the thought of celebrating the day of my birth.
As an egocentric, the entire universe revolves around me anyway, so why should I feel the need to mark one day in the year as ‘just for me’? I think it stems from my childhood (as most things do) and the fuss my mum used to make of me each 18th July. Apparently I was a difficult birth, the doctor feared for my mum as she had a tiny pelvis, not designed to allow a baby the size of a Saint Bernard through it. Many hours of futile straining later resulted in a caesarean section and baby Belinda being hoisted out by crane. Since then, my birthdays have escalated from a simple tea party with my fellow toddlers to a week of unrestrained bingeing, drinking and present-opening.
This year was no exception. My lovely girlfriend organised for a few local friends to accompany me into town for an evening of socialising, dancing and the great British tradition… Karaoke!
As a musician and professional singer, one would expect my performance at such an evening to be faultless, effortless and probably the best sung of the night. Alas, after one too many lagers, I was unsteady on my feet, dribbling from all orifices and in need of mouth to mouth resuscitation. I struggled on regardless, grabbing the microphone from the last participant and heaving myself up onto the fragile temporary stage ready to let rip.
My girlfriend tottered up next to me ready to begin our duet - an ironic cover of the 80s classic Greasy Lover by Phil Collins & Philip Bailey. Oh how ironic it was.
The minute I opened my gob to unleash the voice that has previously sung to at least 58 lesbians, the audience all seemed to be distract themselves with their drinks, mobile phones and each other. Not one person seemed to be listening and every time I craned my neck to observe the appreciation of my falsetto voice, no-one met my eyes.
Co-ordinating singing through the microphone with keeping my ample frame upright and away from the edges of the minute stage demanded huge effort. I noticed the words appearing on the karaoke screen bore little resemblance to the cacophony coming from our mouths. As the song ended and we reluctantly passed our mics back to the unfortunate host, there was a ripple of applause - some might say born of relief that the ordeal had ended.
It didn’t end there. My friend, a lovely lezzy lady who is extremely beautiful, very intelligent and needs no extra talent, was next in line to karaoke. As she swaggered onto the stage to the opening bars of Walking in Memphis the crowd went wild. Her voice was an epiphany. Deep, husky and right on the tune, she tore into the song like a ravenous tiger. Her performance would have made Cher weep (with envy). Straight women in the audience were in a mass panic, desperately screaming and pulling at their underwear in the vain hope that if they threw their thongs, she might look at them. It was like something out of the Cavern Club and certainly not what I had been expecting at my birthday bash!
Oh well, sometimes you just have to admit defeat and enjoy yourself. I gave up on the karaoke, complimented my friend on her amazing voice and went home in the early hours with a big birthday smile on my face. Thinking I might have to change career though....
Belinda O’Hooley
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