FRY ME A BABOON!

It’s Sunday morning and I’m sitting in my bedroom in Spain, looking out over the calm blue Mediterranean and giggling. No one is tickling me - no dog or cat, grandchild or lover - though my friend, Rich-ard is asleep in the other room. He is, sadly, neither Rich nor ‘ard – but a good friend is ‘arder to find than a rich one, so we leave it at that.

The reason I’m giggling is something that happened at last night’s party - my niece’s 40th. She was born in 1969 so the theme was The Sixties.

While searching for the perfect get-up, I contemplated wearing a t-shirt with the words ‘I’m in My Sixties!’ printed on it. Then, while hunting through the vintage rails of Camden and Portobello, I found the perfect dress: an A-line silver number complete with couture label, of the type worn by Jackie Kennedy or Twiggy way back when. £15 secured it.

I chopped another few inches off the hem and teamed it with white tights and a pair of Aunty Betty’s pointy-toe sling back shoes from Dolcis still lurking at the back of her wardrobe. Genuine 1965!

Add a beehive hairdo, Dusty make-up, false eyelashes which flapped like crows’ wings, white lipstick et voilà! It’s my old self come back to haunt me 40 years on! All that was missing was a Beatle, but the one I loved way back then is currently crooning with the angels. Yeah. . . yeah. . . yeah. . .

So there we are at the party – among the mini-skirts and flower powered hippies - when the mike crackles and silence is requested. Standing before us is a man in a suit about to burst into song. This is my sister’s surprise to her daughter: a ‘Frank Sinatra’ impressionist who proceeds, with the help of a scratchy playback, to murder most of Ol’ Blue Eyes’ greatest hits.

"Fry me a baboon and let me pray among the cars
Let me know what wife is ripe on Blue Peter and Mars. . ."

Poor guy was Mexican and had obviously learned the words phonetically! It was clear he had no idea what he was singing about – and no voice to speak of either. We all looked at each other and burst into fits of laughter. At the price she paid, my poor sister had been done up like a kipper.

‘See if he can sing Far Far Away’ I told her.

After he’d finished the Sinatra set, he came back on as Elvis. Well, let’s just say he’d changed into a pair of white shoes.

"If you lookee for trouble, uh-huh, uh-huh, you come a right place
If you lookee for trouble, uh-huh, uh-huh, you come right in my face. . ."

Yes. Well. Whatever. . .!

The party went with a swing but if you’re ever going to book a Sing-a-Like in Sunny Spain, make sure you check him out first.