Speechless with a Voice

Last Sunday friends and family descended on my shabby chic world and whilst I worked hard to make the perfect "cupcake" and "candyfloss" day slaving in the kitchen to create a sumptuous Sunday meal (cursing Nigella and her ability to not only look drop-dead gorgeous but also to cook like a goddess), my guests sat chilling out in the garden blissfully unaware that I had now entered a campaign of hatred against the sex-god cook.  As I was told by Mrs Saatchi to beat and separate, I envisioned a beating of another sort where I was the victor and she bowed down to acknowledge my dominance as I separated her beautiful head from her shoulders and placed it on a platter.  Yes, she was trying to baptize me into the art of culinary skills but I was dancing to Salome's tune!
Anyway, the noise from the  motley crew in the garden hushed for five minutes and then there was a roar of "Oh my God!"; "You have soooo got to!" and "I can print the team tee-shirts!"  Not to miss out and being completely nosy by nature, I stuck my head out of the door to investigate.  My brother was the focus of attention and he looked ill at ease.  As I came out to further investigate, I could smell the burning of salad from the kitchen. Yes, salad.  Ok.
"Wasssuppp?!" I rapped (even typing that makes me cringe - why do I just come out with these idiocies?)
"Clearly, your brother has all the talent!" said one friend - I use the term "friend" sparingly now!
"Your brother has been selected for the pre-lim auditions of the "Voice"!" squealed another.
Well, I was in overdrive.  I had his hair, outfit and dance routine sorted out within five minutes.  I had picked the judge and had also chosen my outfit for the final.
"We need a good sob-story", announced my closest friend ( even though she's a Kiwi I don't hold that against her!). "Maybe you could balloon to a gazillion kilos and then struggle with the pain of nil by mouth whilst singing?"
"OOOOOh, once you had lost shed loads, you could then sing for your supper at the final," I chipped in.
He puffed silently on his cigarette; eyes raised to the heavens.  The smoke from the salad was now billlowing from the kitchen.
"Or, no offence, " I said turning to my sister-in-law who I adore, "you could have a marriage breakdown because he had fallen in love with Tom or Jesse and then he would realise at the final that he may have won but he had lost his one true love!"  At this point, my brother shut his eyes and crossed his arms.
"You need a famous friend," declared my partner. "Maybe you could have stroked the dog that once sniffed  the third cousin of Elton?"  The salad smoke was now stinging our eyes.  My brother yawned.
"We will support you all the way, mate! We need a slogan! " agreed another. "What about this?   'Eeeees Sex!"
My brother shifted on his chair and raised his eyebrows.  The salad smoke clung around him as if he was stepping out onto the stage for his first number.
"He won't go", said my sister-in-law, "he's refusing to go."  Uproar.
"Nooooo!"
"Come on man, you gotta!"
"Think of Ollie Murs!"
As the last tendrils of fog from the dying salad evaporated, my brother could be seen sitting god-like, a sardonic expression on his face, still speechless.