I can’t sing. I like to think that I can, but I really can’t. In addition, I hate watching other people sing when they’ve clearly got the musical talent of a drunk Labrador. So, imagine my quandary when I was approached by a gorgeous, Mexican lady and asked to participate in a karaoke evening…

Let’s start with some background on where I am. I’m on holiday in sunny Cancun, Mexico – the only place in the world where buses have a bus to catch (they speed around, competing with one another for passengers). I’m staying in an all-inclusive hotel, where food, alcohol and entertainment are thrown at you and ingested like feeding time at the local crocodile park. It really is modern debauchery at its finest.

Yesterday, after a day of relaxation mixed in with a tragic attempt at pool-side salsa dancing and some beach soccer, I was relaxing in the bar with a drink. It was at this point that I was approached by the gorgeous Mexican lady, Paola, wearing a stunning dress. With my brain distracted and tongue half hanging out, I heard her mumble something about a karaoke show. Alarm bells sounded in my head. I did the only thing I could think of – I nodded enthusiastically (to seem bold and brave), before running off to hide in a corner where she couldn’t find me. Unfortunately, she sought me out and discovered my hiding place.

Sitting down next to me, she had her book of songs at the ready. I flicked through the pages, trying to buy some time to figure out a way to say “no” without looking like a boring, spoil sport. However, my clever brain had deserted me and been replaced by a giant, wobbly jelly. Glancing through the book I stopped, quite by accident, on a page of Frank Sinatra songs. “Fly Me To The Moon – sing that, I love that song,” she boomed from next to me. “Here, write your name and I’ll do the rest.” Foolishly, I agreed (my jelly brain had turned into a trifle by this point). Whilst she ran off excitedly, I ran off in terror – towards the bar. The only possible way to make the experience less painful was to order a few quadruple vodka and cokes. Reaching the bar, I signalled the barman in desperation and then glanced around the room. I felt a little more at ease – the room was half empty. Great!

As my imminent demise approached, the room was filling up. Word was obviously getting around that somebody was going to die horribly on stage. The karaoke show began and from that moment, every time the announcer read out a name that wasn’t mine, I sat back, swigged another vodka and coke and took a deep breath.

After 3 singers, my name was read out. This was my moment – I strode up onto the stage; faking confidence. The introduction to the song began and I started singing. It was bad, very bad – I could hear it, yet could do nothing about it. To make matters worse, the song had no backing vocals – Sinatra never needed them to distract from his amazing voice. So, it was just my voice and an almost-silent instrumental. A break in the vocals allowed me to try and win the crowd back with a little dance – it worked – but then I had to start the final verse and that meant singing again.

I didn’t just murder the song, I butchered it into little pieces and fed it to the cat, before having it vomited back up with a fur ball. The only consolation I can take from it is the thought that Paola won’t be able to hear her favourite song again without remembering my performance, so there is some kind of revenge there. Still, I think I’m now deserving of the nickname The Butcher Of Bexhill.

Despite my singing being awful, I wasn’t the worst singer of the night and I didn’t take it seriously. So, although it was as painful as having teeth removed with a cordless hammer drill, I did come out of it with a sparkling smile and a little piece of dignity. I think Paula appreciated the effort…