“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!