Gold singer! Hamming it up like Meatloaf

IF they had an Olympic section for knowing the lyrics, singer and writer of every pop song released in the 60s and 70s then Him Indoors would be in for a gold.

It’s a pointless talent really, a bit like archery or cycling around an arena very, very slowly, following a little bike with an engine on it. But he impresses me. Not that that’s difficult, I’ve been known to shout: “Don’t tell me, I know this one. . .” when they’re playing “Sgt Pepper” on Smooth FM. It’s a sign of getting old. Listening to Smooth FM...
We sing along to all the old hits in the car. It’s the only place he encourages my warbling. Probably because I’m tone deaf. In the flat he worries the neighbours might think he’s strangling me. Sometimes I have a secret few bars of “Sing, Sing a Song” in the shower, but only when he’s still asleep.

I don’t sound half bad to my ears. I wouldn’t claim to be a Whitney or a Madonna, but I reckon I could hold my own with Meatloaf or Westlife. I’ve even been known to have a go on the old karaoke. I did a passable rendition of Steppenwolf’s “Born To Be Wild” at daughter Number 2’s wedding reception. She’s speaking to me again now, though, so it’s all right.

Indeed, after listening to some of the wannabes on the “X Factor”, I do believe I’ve missed my vocation and should be touting my talents in front of Mr Cowell et al. At this point, Him Indoors says “over my dead body”. Apparently, it’s one thing making a total ass of yourself in front of drunken family and friends, quite another planning to do it in front of the nation.

Not that I’d have been alone. Who, I want to know, told Ant and Seb, the brothers from Wales, that they could sing? I know all Welshmen believe they have the voice (borra da, Dad) but here are two who patently haven’t. Someone’s been lying to them.

Someone, somewhere, said: “Jolly good idea” when they first thought about auditioning for the “X Factor”. Instead, they should have rolled around on the floor laughing and spared the two lads their total humiliation.

Because it wasn’t enough to murder some song that even Him Indoors couldn’t put a name to — but they actually had to be chucked out of the room by a man built like a brick outhouse with the word security printed on his shirt in case he forgot what he was doing.

Great telly, I laughed till I cried. Funniest thing on the box since . . . well, since the last bunch of sad no-hopers stood in front of the four judges and let rip.