Jonny McCambridge: The Armoy Yoko Ono - facing my real fears about singing out loud

Glasses of wine are being poured and bottles of beer opened. I am one of the few exceptions in that I have consumed no alcohol. I am driving but also on duty at work. It has not been a busy news day but I have occasionally had to absent myself from the party to update a rolling story or to check the news wires are up to date. I have returned to the front room from my latest absence, where Christmas songs are now being played.

I hear the opening piano chimes of The Pogues' Fairytale of New York, as familiar and comforting as a steamed pudding. I am starting to relax, to lower my professional defences, when, unexpectedly, a microphone is thrust into my hand.

It takes a few moments to register what is going on. A karaoke machine delivered by Santa as a supposed present for a child has been repurposed by the adults. While I was out of the room it was commonly decided that I would take on the main vocal duties and sing the Shane MacGowan parts in the classic Christmas song. My sister-in-law, on the other side of the room, is to sing the Kirsty MacColl lyrics.

A cold tremble runs down my spine as I come to terms with what is happening. There are multiple sets of eyes expectantly upon me. I am to sing out loud, in front of other people. I glance nervously at my wife beside me, the only person present who understands what an ordeal this will be. She gives me a smile of sympathy and support.

I take a deep breath.

'It was Christmas Eve, babe….in the drunk tank….an old man said to me….'

It is difficult for me to express how strained the relationship that I have had with the sound of my own voice has been throughout my life. When I was younger, I suppose I imagined what others heard when I opened my mouth were tones reminiscent of a young Sinatra combined with the authority of James Earl Jones. It was only when I first heard myself on tape that I realised I sounded more like Yoko Ono if she had been born in Armoy.

I remember the unfortunate occasion well. In the first year of secondary school, in religious studies, I was given a leading part in a class production of a Bible scene. Like a young Liam Neeson, I played the part with gusto.

The teacher recorded the show and played it back to us later. I sat and suffered at the back of the classroom, horrified by the sounds produced. It was not only that my country brogue was much more prevalent than I had previously understood, but the timbre was all off; my R sounds were flat and non-rhotic, my vowels all awry and squeaky.

The episode scarred me deeply. After coming through a period where I determined that I would never speak out loud again, I compromised by speaking when I had to, on the understanding that I would never again be expected to listen to what others had no choice in listening to.

I know that it is not uncommon for people to dislike the sound of their own voice, but I had an extremely severe case, bordering on a phobia for several years.

Later, as I aged, the symptoms mellowed. I became reconciled to the voice I had been given and even grew to love it, often exaggerating the thick culchie accent for comic effect. I've done multiple radio appearances over the years and can now listen back to them with only a small amount of uncomfortable squirming.

But I absolutely, unequivocally, unilaterally, draw the line at singing out loud when there are other people present.

I am not given to false modesty, but I know that I possess one of the worst singing voices in the history of humanity. I simply cannot hold a tune and my pitch swings between something deep, hoarse and unpleasant, like coal being shovelled into a scuttle, to a whining, screeching dirge which could be marketed as a form of cat repellent.

There is not much that scares me in this world, but the thought of having to sing out loud in front of people reduces me to terror. The condition is so severe that I have spent years miming along when 'Happy Birthday' is sung at my son's birthday parties.

And now, here I am, on Christmas night, the only sober man in the room and I am performing a song. I hope that the others do not notice that the tremble in the hand that holds the microphone is almost as pronounced as the tremble in my voice.

I get to the end of the song. It is hard to read the expressions on the faces. There is a smattering of applause and one or two compliment my sister-in-law on her singing voice. I quickly pass the microphone on to the next person.

It is over and I have survived it. The sound of my singing voice did not, as I had feared, cause the Earth to spin off its axis or lead to apocalyptic tsunamis, earthquakes and volcanic eruptions. Instead, the world moves on much as before.

I would like to be able to sing properly. People tell me that anyone can be taught to sing in tune. I may be an extreme case, but is it possible? Perhaps taking singing lessons should be my mission for 2026.