Being someone with theatre in her blood, I thought, Easy, piece of cake, I can do it. I downed the last of my drink as my name was being called, and before I knew it I was standing on stage with a microphone in my hand. And what seemed like a camp idea at the time turned into a rather embarrassing realisation: I can’t sing!

If you’ve ever been one of the either talented or brave punters who offer themselves to public ridicule in the name of campness and fun, then you will know what I’m talking about. If not, then it’s karaoke.

All my life I’ve wanted to be a pop star. I can remember being five years old and singing Gloria into my mirror. The desire to sing grew as I did, and my dream of being a singing pop sensation gnawed at my soul until it catapulted me here in Oxford Street doing the next best thing: pretending to be a pop star. Here I am getting so much satisfaction in the art of miming and in drag, but alas, I have given up on my dream of being a singer praised for my angelic voice.

Just over five years ago before I started drag, I chased my slippery dream, and took singing lessons every week for six months. Much to my bitter disappointment, I learned enough about singing to know that I can’t. Or more appropriately shouldn’t. And at 19 I watched my childhood fantasy get sucked down a dirty Darlinghurst gutter, without any sympathy for the years I had spent cherishing that dream. Life sucks, hey!

Thank God I found drag, because now I am living my fantasy (just without the singing part). I get to travel the world and perform to people, just like Laura Branigan (without the Gloria part). But last Tuesday night at Stonewall, with the help of a lot of alcohol, I took one last bite at that soured dream and put my name down to sing karaoke. Well, all I can say is (1) I have new respect for anyone who gets up to sing, (2) I will never heckle again, and (3) I’m very sorry for those who had to endure my soulful rendition of New York, New York.

Tuesday nights at Stonewall, hosted by either Ricca Paris or Candy Box, is always a camp night out. You can always be sure of a giggle or a wiggle and even a tickle if you’re lucky. And don’t be scared to put your pride on the line, homosexuals are a beautifully supportive community who won’t make you feel embarrassed if you have a terrible voice. Will they?
Me, I’ll stick to miming.

If you’re looking for an elegant Sunday evening, with smooth yet quirky sounds and a couple of shows, then Lance Leopard has the place for you. In the rich and vibrant interior of the Grand Pacific Blue Room, you can converse and indulge in a touch of hetero sophistication. The dramatic space offers a more Gothic masculine ambience than light and airy as the name suggests, but it does have some magic in its design. Maybe it’s just some old Albury energy seeping across the road. Whatever it is, Sundays at the Grand Pacific Blue Room sounds perfect for this winter.

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