We spent hours, literally HOURS, figuring out how the joystick-doohickey works, only to find that idiots are rewarded and musical genii like myself go unrecognised. What happens is, and I will try and cut down on the technical jargon to reduce discomfort for everyone reading, you turn on your telly and this floating stream of record covers appears, from which you choose a vaguely familiar song (Kate Nash's smash hit "Mouthwash" mar shampla, or the unforgettable "10,000 Nights Of Thunder" by edgy popsters, Alphabeat), scream "SELECT. SELECT!" into one of the microphones for fifteen minutes, then your song of choice is dashed onscreen, amongst a literal pukefest of red and blue spots and dashes. These, friends, are your singing instructions.
Lyrics flash by, terrible lyrics it must be said which make you wonder for the future of the pop genre. Did you know that the lyrics to "Here Come The Girls" by the Sugababes is ninety percent repetition of the word "girls" and no where do they mention amazing three for two offers at my local branch of my favourite chemist chain? Huh. If you try to interpret your tune creatively, as I like to do in all my musical performances, the telly shrieks "TERRIBLE!" or "BAD!" at you and your friends roar. If you are a tone deaf moron with the ability to complete the song at the tempo and pitch pre-proscribed by those Nazis of music, Sing Star, then you will win the game, gaining nothing but the hollow-sounding victory of brain-dead cretins over True Art. Then you will go to your local public house and claim glory, because, as I may have mentioned, you have the remarkable ability of singing dots and dashes.
I hope you're proud of yourself, Donna freaking Purcell.