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.