But it doesn't stop me from trying to sing like her - especially when I'm drunk in charge of a karaoke machine.
Last night started out as a low-key pub gathering and ended with eggs benedict in a 24 hour bar at 3am. This followed our impromptu singing session in a place affectionately known (by us) as the Dirty Karaoke club. Because that's exactly it is.
The entrance to Dirty Karaoke is unsurprisingly through a grubby little doorway in Soho. The rooms are small, the seats are beer stained and the equipment is ancient. But it's considerably cheaper than its posher cousins, with their shiny flatscreens and fancy dress boxes.
It's a proper little den of iniquity. And the best thing about it is that there is almost always a room available, although one has to wonder whether a quick rendition of Pokerface is necessarily the primary motivation of some of its clientele.
I have never been to Dirty Karaoke when sober. I'm not even sure that it exists during the day - I imagine it's hidden away like Harry Potter's Diagon Ally to all but the alcohol-fuelled. You probably need to fail a breath test in order to get in.
I can't even remember the name of the street it's in now, although I find my way there like a pissed-up homing pigeon whenever I need to.
So that's how I ended up there with my husband and our renegade friends, screeching along to Bad Romance in the wee hours and quaffing champagne (I'm quite sure it wasn't but by that stage I really didn't care).
Our voices are several octaves deeper today and I have a nasty feeling the worst of the hangover is yet to come. Oh, and by the way, I really can't sing.