“Do the fingers,” I told the crowd – I knew this was a terrible idea.

Last night I was the Sonia Kruger in town, being a “host” for an event titled a copyright-breech-avoidant variation of channel 7’s Dancing With the Stars. Except while dear old Sonia was qualified for the gig by previous ballroom dancing and public event experience, I landed the role by being thrown under the bus by my boss, insistent on not going down alone after she reluctantly took on a role as a dancing judge.

As someone whose job it is to string together coherent sentences, talk to people and to generally not be a stain, I don’t exactly fit the role. I once had to interview a federal minister and told him to expect a few awkward silences because I’m not great at small talk citing that “I once started a conservation with someone by saying ‘have you ever got a chicken wing stuck in your beard?’” as justification. So while in theory I shouldn’t be terrible with a microphone, in practice I’m about as good of a choice to host an event as a plate of lukewarm skinless chicken thigh pieces soaking in their own juices.

This is because I clearly have a different view of what is funny than the Average Joe. My favourite jokes include saying, “Ted, Andy is on the phone – tell him to get off it before he brakes it!” and the classic, “I’m just going to put the kettle on – do you think it’ll fit?”. I also have a tendency to swear like a sailor instead of thinking of words to say which eloquently express my sentiments.

It’s now been more than 12 hours since I took to the stage, microphone in hand, and it’s only now that I’m sitting in the dark with 90s break up music blaring that I think I am ready to recount those shaky few hours.

I strutted in thinking I had it in the bag. I had myself a snazzed-up clipboard that looked like a mirrored disco ball emblazoned by a permanent marker with “disco and such” to sum up my knowledge of the world of bodily movements coordinated to music. I had a microphone with tape that matched my outfit. I was wearing hairspray for fuck’s sake. But all the seamless undies and breast tape in the world couldn’t smooth over my poor judgement or cover the erect nipples of bad puns.

I had initially decided to sail along stone cold sober, but it was when my co-host Tony threw to me to add something two minutes in and all I could reply with was “yeah, so do that” that I realised this was a poor choice. By the first break I was gagging for a stubby. I’m proud to say that I only missed one brief appearance to acquire said social lubrication.

There’s an old saying that my dad likes to bring out every now and then when a joke falls flat or a stupid suggestion is immediately shot down, being: “that went over like a lead fart”. I’m not entirely sure how that saying works, but I think it’s more than applicable to the majority of my quips from last night. And so, in the interests of keeping the word count down, here are the top three pun-related lead farts from last night:

1) “I don’t know about you Tony, but I’d dip my corn chip in that salsa” – said after a particular raunchy salsa dance routine.

2) “Hats off to that one” – proclaimed after a man threw his hat off in his dance routine.

3) “It looked like smooth sailing” – not so subtly slipped into a post-dance interview after a pair danced to Beyond The Sea.

But perhaps the biggest lead fart of all was when I applauded a man for rocking a pair of shorts and “getting his pins out”. “Not enough men wear shorts these days,” I told the audience before adding that, “his calves are so defined you could cut cheese with them”. That one was so bad that my co-host felt compelled to end my love sonnet to men in shorts by hastily cutting to the judges’ comments.

And while I promised not to swear so to avoid sullying the name of my workplace and being handed an offensive language charge by the table of cops (which would have made for an awkward time when I did the police rounds on Monday), I apparently need to work on my willpower. I seems it will take more than a few years at university to beat the bogan out of me.

“Get over there before those other bastards do,” I told the crowd when the script told me to encourage people to visit the photobooth. That was followed up by my suggestion for them to “do the fingers” in front of the camera, while unwittingly giving roughly 330 people the forks. I also apparently interpreted my instructions to “wrap up the event and encourage guests to dance” as telling middle-aged people to “hit the piss and tear it up”. Not to mention the countless times I quipped, “this isn’t on the farkin’ clipboard,” to my fellow dignified guests at the VIP table.

However, this kind of played in my favour, because said VIPs left almost immediately after the competition wrapped up and left a largely-untouched cheese platter for me to devour. And at least I’m not likely to be asked back to do it for a second time.

Everyone wins!

Someone is going to put a microphone in my hand and allow me to “talk how you normally do” in front of a crowd without a script.

This person is in charge of running a business, can be trust to drive an automobile without ploughing into pedestrians and kept like three children alive well into adulthood. People entrust this woman’s ability to make responsible, sensible decisions. And yet, I don’t know if I have any faith in their judgement. Because this woman suggested me to be an MC for an actual public event.

Now, since I’ve been able to coordinate my bodily excretions with finding a toilet, I’ve known that I was an MC. But the MC I am referring to is the Year 9 version: a mad *c-bomb drop*. And that kind of MC is very different from the MC this woman has in mind.

Being a Master of Ceremonies is a whole other kettle of fish. You have to be charismatic, knowledgeable and articulate (ei. not ending every sentence with “ya bastard”). As someone who has roughly 500 cards affirming that I’m some kind of professional, I’ve mastered this charade for the duration of a phone call, and even the occasional face-to-face exchange. However sustaining that kind of act for a whole night not is akin to keeping Tony Abbott’s inappropriate comments in check – it not only seems exhausting, but it’s borderline impossible.

Take this week, for example. I wore the same shirt to work two days in a row while answering questions with the likes of, “yeah good,” and, “I’ll have a sniff”. I had to spell the word “vicious” aloud and tried to put an “h” in there. We had work experience kids in the office, so I made a promise to myself that I wouldn’t swear – it took about three hours before I added fuck to almost every sentence. And this was only because the first three hours I was sitting in silence in court. Charisma, knowledge and a killer vocab – things I just don’t have in my MC utility belt.

I’ve seen many a good MC at work, so I know how it’s done. For my sister’s wedding, we had two MCs. They had a whole speech planned, but an off-hand remark about who was the best one turned into a dance off: complete with air thrusts and pants being thrown into the crowd. Unfortunately, there is only one Dannielle in the world (just imagine how beautiful it would be if there were more of me – I daresay it would be positively utopic) so I can’t go up against myself in a d-floor battle and female nudity just isn’t funny (think about it: it just isn’t the same when a woman wears just stockings to a recovery and a two-sizes-too-tight shirt that says “bitch”, but when a slightly chubby sporadically hairy man does it’s a riot).

This happened when these fellows had a script, whereas I will be riding solo. This isn’t a great strategy.

When put on the spot, weird things come out of my mouth. A guy at work dislocated his knee and he accidentally put weight on it when I told him to get up out of his chair so I could get at his computer. I kind of panicked after he made a noise like a dog-sized mouse being thrown at a wall, and the first thing I said was “do you want bite my hand?!”.

This isn’t going to end well.

But, I was able to strike a deal which took me out of the running as a candidate for the office pageant queen representative (because what in the world would I have for my talent be? Picking out people in the audience, asking them to tell me something positive about their lives and over thinking it on their behalf to obscure it into a raging negative in under 30 seconds?). The exchange was so tempting that I couldn’t turn it down. So I traded one night of awkward pun mumbling and ran out of the office victorious.

It may be excruciating for the audience to watch me fumble my way through Mastering their Ceremony, but their discomfort is a price I’m wiling to pay to keep me out of the evening gown section.

And if worse comes to worst, I’ll dance away the awkward with vodka as by d-floor partner.