Qualified though I am, there will be no application from me to participate in a new BBC TV show which needs bad singers.
I have, however, seen enough of them on Facebook displaying their vocal talents during lockdown who would be perfect for the programme, named I Can See Your Voice.
It is a mystery music guessing game – a little complicated to explain – and if you’re tone deaf you’ll have a wonderful chance of being selected to appear and possibly win a cash prize.
Those of a certain vintage will recall the days when the musical input at house parties came not from the thump-thump-thumping of giant speakers, but directly from the guests themselves.
Seated around a living room, each would be required to “do a turn” and sing their chosen song, with most of the performers believing they were either Frank Sinatra or Connie Francis.
The council-house cabarets presented a wide range of the good, the bad and the ugly of vocals.
One woman I heard took about five minutes to get through Danny Boy, so elongated were her notes that fellow guests were checking their watches or nodding off.
More than once, I had to exit a room and head for the toilet in an effort to suppress my giggling and regain my composure.
There was a time, though, when I was the singer of a band – they were called groups in the 1960s – called The Hoods.
Mind you, with our 1960s suits and ties and tidy hairstyles, we were as hoodlum-like as the Archbishop of Canterbury.
We played dance halls all around Tayside and even had a Friday night residency at Perth City Hall where we would provide the music for the dancers before the star act would appear and the jigging would stop.
Many of you will remember the bands we supported – Manfred Mann, Dave Berry and the Cruisers, Freddie and the Dreamers, and Georgie Fame and the Blue Flames among them.
I don’t recall why The Hoods disbanded, but it was tremendous fun while it lasted.
Nothing to see here…
It was the report Boris Johnson wanted pochistil pod kovrom, or brushed under the carpet, if you prefer.
Or почистил под ковром, if you read Russian.
But when the Commons Intelligence and Security Committee’s long-awaited report into Russian meddling in the UK reckoned the government was “playing catch-up”, what they really meant was that they didn’t want to see, nor hear, no evil.
Why would you when it might unearth the list of Russian oligarchs donating to the Conservatives?
No bets on Scott’s world title chances
A large man wearing a bunnet welcomed online viewers to “the fight we’ve all been waiting for” – were we? – at Aberdeen’s deserted Northern Hotel last weekend.
He then became MC, announcing the names of Scott Harrison, pictured right, and Paul Peers – they fumbled their way from behind a curtain and into the empty hall – before assuming the role of commentator.
Multi-tasking is alive and kicking.
Harrison, soon to be 43 and having his first professional fight in seven years, stopped Peers in the third round.
The loser is a Liverpudlian now resident in Orkney, where sparring partners are as rare as a Dons fan in Govan.
He hit the canvas, clutching his tummy as if he’d just had a dodgy curry, while Harrison declared he was on course for another world championship.
He last won a title 17 years ago.
Alas, I cannot find a bookie ready to offer odds on the likelihood of that.