Karaoke is a controversial social divider. Some, showing what I consider to be an extraordinary amount of self-control, refuse to renounce their dignity (even for an hour or two) and drop the mic, opting out of the belting, off-key antics altogether. Others, contrastingly, happily surrender to the (hopefully) soundproof walls, putting their faith in the unwritten mantra of; “what happens in the booth, stays in the booth.”
In fact, at my father-in- law’s 40th birthday party, a decent chunk of his friends left once the karaoke man arrived with his machine and lyric screen; their dignity remaining intact. Interestingly, I have no such story of my own to evidence this sort of aversion to karaoke – clearly I hang around with a much less dignified bunch.
Women are often informed by their midwives as they go into labour; “you leave your dignity at the door”, but - rather crucially - are comforted with the closing line, “you’ll pick it up again on your way out.”
I think most of us recognise that we have a deep-seated, human hunger to be treated as something of value, as somebody who is dignified. But I think we also realise that this isn’t necessarily possible, or indeed even desirable, for the entirety of a lifetime. There are moments, nights, phases, transitions in which our dignity is left very much at the door. Our salvation must lie in the hope that we will, hours, days or weeks later, pick it back up again.
For it’s the things that matter to us most, that we love most, that are so often the cause of our shedding of dignity. Be it a messy break up, a hot-headed argument, fighting passionately for a cause we have great conviction in or even – dare I say it – an unquenchable thirst for a proper sing-song with our mates.