Singing your heart out
Trip Start Sep 28, 2011
333Trip End Ongoing
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It's a matter of waiting until the sun starts to go down before I'm nursing a pint to death. I've been staring at it for a good half an hour and smoking one cigarette in two. This is accompanied by heaving and spluttering not unlike an Orc clearing his throat. I look and feel like an organ donor. So long as it's not my liver or lungs.
Then the first pint blues turns into the second pint buzz. The place is seriously kicking off in what Wild Rover staff dub the best night of the week; open mic. That's the only reason I've stayed, as I've not played in front of anyone since Nicaragua. Apart from that unofficial night of lunacy in Quito. I'm working up the Dutch courage to give this a go, considering the standard is pretty impressive. It appears every single Irishman in the place can play or sing something. I hate talented people.
I've squeezed out a couple of tunes, but as ever get the confidence to do more as the night is taken away. Again as ever, more people come out of the woodwork the longer it goes on, entirely down to getting off their faces and growing the boozy balls to have a turn. This includes a number of drunken Israeli's intent on taking over. Speaking of this, I know they travel a lot, but I've never seen so many in one place. They out way Irish, English and anyone else for that matter by a significant margin. Kudos to them for getting out into the world in packs, but you might as well call the 'Rover 'Little Israel'.
Things take a turn for the hilarious. It's mental. Totally mental. Rowan, the bar manager here, appears to have a talent for being something of a crowd pleaser, and is rattling through the hits with aplomb. Towards the end nobody gets much of a look in, but it doesn't really matter, considering the whole bar is belting out the tunes with no care for the state of their voices in the morning. It's like being at a football match and each fan has a megaphone.
For some reason after this marathon scream-a-thon I'm in my room swapping my stinky all day clothes for the kilt for the 5th night in a row. It's got to the point where I am relying on it to get the attention I crave when out at the dancing, or when I'm on the hunt for a pretty girl. My check shirt/skinny tie combo just doesn't cut it anymore. Call it vanity, call it insecurity, call it what you will, on goes the tartan yet again, fumbling with the leather straps that are struggling to get around the waist with each passing day. I remember little after that, save coming home with 150 soles in false bank notes from an ATM. This after giving all my change to the homeless guys sleeping by the machines. Karma eh?