Extreme karaoke is the way forward. Gather ten of your most tone deaf friends. Fill them with 40kgs of dim sum and the odd litre of Pissinger 06. Lock them in a booth with bad wigs and two microphones and back away rapidly. The horror of this situation is compounded by the vast number of Abba songs programmed into the machine. All present are simultaneously chain smoking and chugging down tequilas while brawling for the mics. I creep out into the labyrinthine bowels of Lucky Voice and head for the nearest exit. I find it, but also find this lone spot, beaming down heavenly beneficence. I attempt to translocate via this badly disguised teleportation unit, but am dragged to the ground before full disintegration and hurled back into the maelstrom. I decide to fight fire with fire and croak my way through Dredlock Holiday, but all are too far gone to care and punish me with Barbie Girl and extra reverb on the mic. This Hell eventually ends when we are turfed out on the stroke of 12, with a party of slavering morons in the corridor, champing at the bit to take our place. Let it be known, Private karaoke requires tungsten lungs and a liver dipped in nitrogen, you will not survive otherwise.
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