Puddles, Pyjamas and a Kitchen Chorus: Ten Songs for a Rain-Soaked Saturday

It starts the way it always starts. Someone checks the weather app on Friday night, says the word 'persistent', and by ten o'clock on Saturday morning the park run is off, the boot sale is off, and the barbecue that was definitely happening this time is very much off. The rain is coming down sideways against the kitchen window and there are four people in the house all quietly disappointed in different rooms.

This is the moment for a request hour. Not a playlist — a request hour. There is a difference, and the difference is that everyone gets a turn.

How the request hour works

The rules are simple enough to explain while the kettle boils.

Everyone in the house gets one song. One. Write it on a slip of paper, fold it, drop it in a bowl, a mug, a saucepan — anything that feels ceremonial. Children get first go at writing, adults get first go at pretending they are not going to pick the same song they always pick.

At four o'clock, the host — that is whoever has claimed the good speaker — draws the slips and builds the running order. Not in the order drawn, but in an order that actually works: warm-ups, kitchen disco, silly middle, sofa chorus, finale. The host has one veto, and the veto is only for tempo. No song gets cut for being uncool. Plenty get moved.

And then the three-song rule: if a song is not landing by the end of the first chorus, it gets faded. No post-mortems, no hurt feelings. A request hour is a living thing, not a court case.

The warm-ups

'Mr Blue Sky' — ELO. Begin with the opposite of the weather. The chirpy bit at the start is the sound of a curtain being opened. It tells the room that we are doing this, and it gets feet moving before anyone has decided to join in.

'Walking on Sunshine' — Katrina and the Waves. Not subtle, not clever, does not need to be. This is the one that gets someone dancing in socks on the kitchen tiles, and once one person is dancing on the tiles, the rest follow within a verse.

The kitchen disco

'Build Me Up Buttercup' — The Foundations. The most reliable group chorus in the English language. Everyone knows the 'why do you build me up' bit, including the uncle who claims he does not know any pop music. Great for handing out parts.

'Come On Eileen' — Dexys Midnight Runners. Risky, because of the knee-bend section, but worth it. Clear a space. Someone will attempt the dance. Someone will regret the dance. Both are essential.

'9 to 5' — Dolly Parton. The unofficial anthem of not being at work. If it is Saturday and raining, this is the reminder that you could be in a meeting. Instant lift.

The silly middle

'You Can Call Me Al' — Paul Simon. The air trumpet is mandatory. So is the bit where someone does the bassline with their mouth. This is the song that breaks the ice for anyone still sitting down pretending to read.

'Singin' in the Rain' — Gene Kelly. Lean into it. Grab a wooden spoon for the umbrella, do the shuffle in the hallway, and let the weather be the joke instead of the problem. It is the only rain song that makes the rain feel like a stage prop.

The sofa chorus

'Ain't No Mountain High Enough' — Marvin Gaye and Tammi Terrell. Split the room in two and give each half a part. This is the one that turns a family into a slightly out-of-tune duet and makes everyone feel like they can sing, which, for three minutes, they can.

'Dancing Queen' — ABBA. Give this one to whoever has been in the house longest. It is the nan pick, the mum pick, the pick that everyone secretly wanted to write down and did not dare. Arms up for the chorus.

The finale

'Sweet Caroline' — Neil Diamond. End here. The 'ba ba ba' section is a group activity, the 'so good' is a shout, and the hand gesture is optional and should be age-appropriate. It has closed weddings and football matches and it will close a rainy Saturday in a living room with equal conviction.

Making it work in a small house

A few practical notes, because most of us are not running a venue.

Volume is a neighbour issue, not a taste issue. Keep the speaker off the shared wall and shut the window if the rain has stopped and the street can hear you. A request hour at a reasonable level is charming. A request hour at full tilt is a noise complaint with a soundtrack.

Timing matters more than you think. Four o'clock is the sweet spot: early enough that nobody is too tired, late enough that lunch has gone down. Ninety minutes is plenty. Two hours is a party. Three hours is a hostage situation.

And give the shy ones a job. Someone can be on lights, someone can be on volume, someone can be in charge of drawing the slips and doing a big dramatic reveal. Participation does not always mean singing. Sometimes it means holding the bowl.

If you only have time for three

Warm up with 'Mr Blue Sky', go straight to 'Build Me Up Buttercup', finish with 'Sweet Caroline'. That is nine minutes and it will fix most of the afternoon.

Then put the kettle on, get the biscuits out, and let the rain do whatever it likes. It cannot cancel a chorus.

What is your rainy-day request? Send it in to Songs4U and we will add it to the bowl for next time.