Open Mic Night

On a recent travel-trip to north of the middle, purpose of which being visitation of Grandmama, I grew tired of her olding eyes, so I saught the humbling slosh of boozy glug-glug. Aware that there are more pubs per capita in England, I presumed that finding a licenced merchant would be no trouble, despite not creeping from the house 'til way gone the legs eleven o'clock.
Gleebsden at night is quite a shocking place. Hanging baskets, laden with yellowing flower-corpses, men on bikes, not travelling, just sat, waiting. And no bars. I asked a young man upon a bike "Where bars... pinty pinty pinty oooohh thirst." He looked at me puzzled for a short while then pointed an abnormally lenghty digit towards a small broken window.
Kicking away at the glass I finally made entry. The room was almost empty. Dust had settled on decorative bunting that shouted "Happy 98th BIrthday Edna." Quick calculations of dust accumulation determined she was probably dead by now. A man sat in the corner wearing a corset and a fireman's helmet. In his lap was a pomeranian. Two young boys squabbled over the fate of another, all dressed as tiny Prime Ministers. All of a click, an absurd female jumped onto a stage and utttered those grim terrible words...
"Who wants to read first?"
Up a man he came, suited, tall, stone-faced, bearing an enormous head-dress, a crudely fashioned spear and a lanyard emblazoned with the logo for Gala Casino.


"Sitting bull, he a good man...
Standing bull, he a strong man...
Running bull, he gone man..."

And he chuckled and left the stage. I purchased a schnapps and Kahlua. Another man crawled in, on his hands and knees, wearing naught but a tablecloth stolen from a Travel Lodge. He scrambled, filthy, nude and grotesque and clambered up to the mic.

"EEE ACK AHHH.... etc"

Which was a little unnerving. A friend of h-++++--
is stood by me and explained his preference for using vowel sounds over standardised word format as a means of blasting open the realms of performance and eschewing the restrictions of words. I pointed out that both of them were pillocks. He shrivelled away. A man in a beret, smoking jacket, Gauloises hand rolled cigarette in hand.

"Skeeb! Bap! Skeebeedeepadawahpwahpwahpbeeep whoa!
Scat Jack, uh-huh... I'm back.
Skooby wabby dooby dee wop wop wop whow!
Scatting like a man possesed,
By a demon in a OW! li'l blue dress
Skeeby Deep deep dap wap wap Wow!"

I fucking detest scat, so this was a little less than thoroughly tortuous. The strange man, jazz mustache, Lennonesque rose-tints, Thelonious Monk vinyl no doubt nearby, ceased rather abruptly and..

"Skeeeby deep wap wap!"

"SCAT JACK! NO!"

The evening continued, next guy, shy, retiring, dye-haired and tight of trousers.
"Skeeb!"
(Looks at Scat Jack with severity.)
And so we awaited the barrage of misery bound to be ejaculated from this pious malcontent.

"I have seen the kill and the cure,
i was twelve when I opened my eyes,
The world couldn't do it for me,
The love I had so long since lost,
She read Bukowski and frowned,"

"Oh Good God..."

"All the time, even when smiling,
A strange frowny smile,
Like a bulldog,
With a wasp in it's arse,
We cried and I came,
Lovers forever, she died... not really but...in my heart."

Very... deep... A small round of applause uttered from a group of friends who had appeared only to watch him, for all other works were of little relevance, for it was he, who had every Bauhaus record. Next man up, old, bespectacled, no hair, Guiness... his fifth Guiness...

"Laa-Dee-Fucking-Daa,
Hoopy boopy hoopy,
You wankers... With your...
Duffel coats and your hand woven by a real orphan scarf,
Your ironic dreadlocks...you're no, Rasta..fari,
With your...Gauloises fags,
Your 'hahahaha...bububububu'
You make me sick...
There once was a man on the stage,
He'd rehearsed his delivery for days,
And as he picked up the mic,
He realised his stuff was shite,
but he went on a did it anyways...how'd ya like that... eh?! eh!?"

Which had the man and his pomeranian in tears. He picked up his dog, adjusted his corset, and walked into the bathroom. A shot was heard. No one moved. One more, an arm raised, sullen, a Gallic crust pouring smoke.