DJ

DJ

Copyright © Simon Lamont 2018 All Rights Reserved

The rights of Simon Lamont to be identified as the author of this work have been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988

All rights reserved. No part may be reproduced, adapted, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, or otherwise without the prior written permission of the author or publisher.

Spiderwize

Remus House

Coltsfoot Drive

Woodston

Peterborough

PE2 9BF

www.spiderwize.com

A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

All characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblances to real people either living or dead are purely coincidental.

ISBN: 978-1-912694-23-5

eBook ISBN: 978-1-912694-24-2

DJ

SIMON LAMONT

SPIDERWIZE

Peterborough UK

2018

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

I would like to thank Barbara for her support in the writing of this novel; in particular patience in hearing me go on about imaginary characters. Also Barbara’s contribution to the wardrobe of my characters was inspirational. Many thanks to Shane, for showing me how a DJ in a club mixes and gets a crowd going! A million thanks to Rita and Richard for their encouragement and thoughts on the plot.

PART 1

(THE MOBILE DJ)

Chapter 1

‘Is that Soundz2light Discos?

‘Yes.’

Hi. You free tonight mate?’

‘You’re in luck, I had a cancellation for tonight. Four hundred ok?’

‘Nahhhhhh. Can’t afford that mate. How about three fifty and throw in a meal?’

‘Ok, go on then. Where are you?’

‘The Kingmead Arms. Past Red’ill mate. Know it?’

‘Not very well. Just give me some directions if that’s ok. Let me get a pen and a scrap of paper.’ I said, walking back to my bedroom, now frantically rummaging around between the empty coffee cups, glasses and bills strewn all over my bedside table for the resources to write the details down with. A half glass of red wine ended up on the lime oak effect laminate floor. ‘Shit!’

‘What did you say mate?’

‘Sorry. Just knocked a glass over. What time is it from and until?’

‘8 until half 12.’

‘Not bad. So I’ll arrive at 6.00 to set up. Is that ok?’

I didn’t really feel like working that New Year’s Eve. In the pit of my stomach I had a bad feeling about the booking. My late grandmother had been a fortune teller, and I inherited some of those skills, or curses as they sometimes were.

I had been going to the party at the separated and divorced club of a local nearby village. No, I was not divorced or separated but the club just took my word for it. The next day on the social calender was Valentines Day. Most of the women were a little older than me, in their early to mid 40’s but were well spoken, lonely and I had never come across a bunny boiler either and most seemed grateful for the company and an uncomplicated shag. My eyes briefly caught the horrible state of the kitchen as I placed the phone back into it’s holder in the hallway. Rest was what was required at that point, even though it was only midday. My head felt bad as my body tried to fight off the effects of a bottle of red wine and pizza. A glass of luke warm water and a squeezed lemon helped. I took a walk outside, across the small green area in front of the block of flats and down to the station, where I bought The Guardian from my local news seller.

‘Not much good news.’ The man at the news kiosk said; he was new, I did not recognise him. I managed a weak smile as I paid him the money for the paper. Back at my flat, having regained some of my inner balance with the glass of water and the walk, I slowly and painfully undressed and crawled back into bed. Lying in bed, I waited for some more sleep, which came over me after a couple of hours of being half awake, my heart occasionally racing, then calming.

The white clock radio alarm blasted through the air with it’s really annoying, nagging loud buzzing sound; the bright red digital display showed 4.15pm – I threw my hand over to kill the noise, my fingers fumbling and pushing two buttons which did nothing before silencing the darn thing. I turned on the radio. Radio 2 was particularly soothing at that time in the afternoon. I dressed slowly, putting on a black T shirt and jeans and went to survey food sources in my kitchen, last night’s leftovers were now in serious need of being binned and were smelling not too good. In the fridge: a soya yoghurt and blueberries. It has started to rain quite hard. It was time to go, I sighed, a deep, long sigh and sucked in a large amount of air. I got in my 2.2 litre petrol 1991 people mover to drive to my shop in Caterham; it was as easy to drive as a car. The huge people mover had an amazing turning circle – useful for pub car parks – a smart colour - aquamarine blue, although now sporting quite a few battle scars from being bashed with my gear. At the shop I hauled out the five seats and carried my gear piece by piece out of the shop into the car, now transformed into a van – there were so many trips in and out; each piece of gear seemed to weigh heavier than the previous piece. All that stuff about safely lifting heavy weights went out of the window when lifting DJ gear – it was all awkward – and heavy. It was like the manufacturers of DJ gear got kickbacks from the osteopathic profession.

The pub was just off the Nutfield Road past Redhill and was a bit of a wrestle to find even with a map; I had to stop in a couple of other pubs to ask the way. There was a faint haze of tobacco smoke and alcohol gave a stale odour to the tired looking pub. Behind the bar was this disinterested looking bloke, probably in his late forties or early fifties, polishing glasses with a suspicious dish cloth.

Where do you want me to set up? I hoped he wouldn’t mention my late arrival.

‘Over there, in the corner. By the window.’ The landlord said, waving to a distant corner of the pub. Why was I always put in a tiny corner, where the staff choose to stack chairs, like I didn’t matter when the reality was that I was going to make or break any party? I surveyed the space to see where I would put my speakers; I was going to have to move some chairs around to fit them in. This was the worst part of the evening, and I often forgot to plug in a lead, and sound would only come from one loudspeaker. The speakers were heavy on the account of having 15" bass drivers and tweeters in one MDF cabinet and had to be hauled onto their stands. The sound system was a little under powered for some functions but for this size of pub it was just about ok. I had my white dual CD player in the same flight case as my matt black mixer. One day I might use the table top CD players I had just had delivered to my shop. I stood back and looked at my booth with it’s 1970’s style flashing screen with inset bulbs and lights and listened to the sound coming from the loudspeakers– a bonus – sound from BOTH loudspeakers – first time. Sifting through the CD’s in my compilations case, I decided upon a mix chill out CD. A few people drifted into the pub, mostly small families with children.

Hoping for an easy night, for a couple of hours I sat watching the families eat their meals, feeling tired with boredom. Sweets and coffees were being served to the diners, and then – five young girls, aged about 10 or maybe 12 asked for the Cheeky Girls. The activity gave me some much needed enthusiasm for the function. Their parents seemed really pleased they had lost their offsprings. They started to jump around on the floor in front of me, imitating the dance. Macarena followed, which they did a perfect formation dance to. One little girl gave herself the job of volunteer DJ assistant and took a bar stool and placed it right next to my DJ booth, so she could watch her friends from an elevated position and fish out CD’s for me to put on for her friends. With my new assistant, it all started to feel a lot less tedious than a normal early evening playing background music.

‘Is that ok? She isn’t bothering you?’ Her father said, coming up to see if I was ok with my enthusiastic volunteer work experience assistant.

‘She’s fine.’ I replied. Her dad seemed glad to leave her with me. Kids seemed to love lots of electronic gear, especially at that age, the more flashing lights and switches the better – girls as well as boys. With guidance from my assistant I stuck to the chart stuff – mostly from the last two Now albums and some of my singles. It was 9 o’ clock and the publicans had forgotten to give me any food....

‘Would you like something to eat?’ My assistant asked.

‘That would be brilliant.’ I replied, thinking that she would be going to the buffet. It’s a kids thing that they can tell when you are hungry. My assistant returned about five minutes later, with a huge white dinner plate full of:

curly bits of chewy sugar resembling short strands of thick string

multi coloured bits of jelly

liquorice of all colours and shapes

pink sugary things in the shape of shellfish.....

And.............................. a pint glass of cola, with ice filling half the glass, and a big chunk of lemon bobbing about on top of all the ice, melting quicker than ice in the Arctic.

‘Would you like some more food?’ The little girl asked me.

‘No, I’m ok.’

‘Can we have the Cheeky Girls again?’ One of her friends asked, her head peering over the booth, chad like.

‘No, I’ve played it five times already.’

‘Pleeeeze!’

‘This is definitely the last time!’

‘Hooray!’ They all chanted. I don’t think their parents were too impressed as they looked around from their tables.

The pub emptied at about 10pm or so. The parents left dragging their protesting children with them. There were a few couples left, sitting facing each other at tables, talking. This was going to be an easy night. Just after 11.30pm a large group of young blokes noisily invaded the pub. The pub was quickly drowned with drunken testosterone in the form of 20 or so young men, tall and slim. Hard, tough faces, some with shaved heads, muscular bodies, strong with relentless physical exercise. A few of them smoking, inhaling deeply, the red glow of the burning cigarettes were like miniature fires in front of their faces. Tattoos and tight T shirts showed off their torsos and powerful, toned arms.

‘We want some dance music.’ I had the Sugarbabes latest song on the deck. I put on Darude’s Sandstorm.... The loud thud, thud of the opening bars shook several empty glasses abandoned on the tables.

The blokes all jumped around and pushed and shoved each other, pulling at each others shirts.

‘Turn it up, TURN IT UP!’ Another yelled. I turned my system up, beyond where it could go. My level meters blinking to the red line on the mixer, and the amp. blinking on the red clip indicators too. Too much of that treatment would wreck my speakers.

‘Smells like there’s going to be a war in ‘ere!’ One of the blokes yelled in my ear, ripping his shirt off to show off his fine abs. He laughed, like a horror actor in a vampire movie. My ear went numb.

‘Give us a good time DJ. Play some bangin’ dance. Techno.’ This shirtless hard abs bloke screamed, his body glistening with sweat.

‘Techno, techno, techno, techno!’ The whole crowd of blokes chanted. At that minute the landlady flew across the floor, shoving a couple of hard blokes out of the way.

‘Take that off. Put on some Rolling Stones, Some Status Quo. NOW!’

‘WILL THAT BE OK?’

‘JUST DO IT!’

‘What’s this? I mean, what the FUCK IS THIS?’ This shirtless bloke yelled at me, suddenly losing his composure, like he wanted to kill me, pushing my stand - it rocked back. My blood ran ice cold, as I gripped the stand to stop it crashing on top of me, my physical strength put it back onto it’s four feet.

‘I was told to put this on. It’s all I can play.’ I stammered – they all calmed down - to my utter amazement. Midnight – I put on the full length version of Auld Lang Syne by the Festival Singers from my Best Of Scottish album. To give them a bit of excitement to end the evening I took a risk and played the Slade version.

‘One more song. One more. One more.’ Several of the blokes chanted.

‘Ok. Ok. OK. One more song then.’ I said. I didn’t want to play one more song. I just wanted to go home. I put on We’re in the Army Now by Status Quo.

‘Brilliant. Status Quoooooo.’ The same shirtless bloke yelled. Oh shit. They loved it. I just reached down to switch off my amp.

‘One more, one more. One more song.’

‘That was the last song. I have to finish.’

‘One more, one more, one more.’

‘Oh. Ok. This really is the last song.’ I put on Dancing in the Moonlight, by Toploader.

‘One more, one more, one more. Take that song off. Take it off! Take it off! They all chanted. This bloke came up behind me.

‘ Go on DJ, put on a dance song. The last song.’ This man said, he had a different dialect to the rest – well spoken. The crowd in front of me started to stomp their feet, like a march. I put on Can’t get you out of my head, the Kylie number one from 2001, they started marching around the room to the beat of the song.

‘One more song. One more. One more.’ There was stomping of feet, as if the marching beat of the Kylie song was still going.

‘That really really was the last song. I want to go hooooooome! I yelled over the microphone. Thank you for being a brilliant crowd and have a safe journey back.’ I pushed the switch on my amplifier, the red light slowly died. I turned off my mixer and my CD player in frantic haste. I tugged out the mains cable and pulled out every jack plug I could quickly lay my hands on. All the fluorescent lights in the pub went on, and my eyes stung with trying to adjust. The pub was strewn with streamers and spent poppers mixed with spilled beer on the floor, sticky, and wet. The silence was punctuated with the clink of glasses being collected from tables by the bar staff, and several of the regiment chanting. No one said anything for a few minutes and all you could hear was the shuffling of peoples feet as they slowly exited the pub, the more drunk ones still singing some indecipherable song, in deep, garbled voices. I started taking my gear out to the van, which I was lucky to have parked close to the front door.

‘Excuse me. Excuse me!’ I said carrying a big bass bin out. People always talk in the exit doorway and block your way out of a venue.

‘Sorry to bother you.’ This young man said to me, probably in his mid 30’s, slim with short black hair, his pretty partner by his side. I hadn’t noticed them in the pub. ‘Can you tell me who sang the song You Can Do Magic?’

‘Not sure.’ I stood for a minute, my heavy mixer handle biting my hand, my brain searched my memory files. ‘America.’

‘It’s the only song that our little girl responds to.’ his partner said. I didn’t know how to respond. The first words spoken to me in the New Year stayed with me forever.

Piece by piece I hauled my gear into my trusted people mover, which had more space than a van, but the insurance was cheaper than a van. I had a trolley to carry the stuff out on, which saved my back. It started to rain as I was loading up, then it was raining quite hard as it took me an hour to get everything in. I became aware of two blokes standing behind me, swaying, losing their balance. One of them was the bloke with the hard abs, still bare chested, not even shivering in the cold night air. The other took his shirt off, they looked like boxers in a ring, but not intent on fighting one another, their prey was going to be me.

‘You are a shit DJ.’ One said.

‘Fuckin’ shit.’ The other said.

‘And you look like a fuckin’ poof.’ The first one said. I swung around.

‘Well. I’m not. And if I was, I wouldn’t be scared to say that to you.’ I looked, then turned sideways and clenched my fists, brought them up to guard position to protect my face; I started to shake with fear.

‘’ere. You two. Fuck off and leave ‘im alone!’ The landlord yelled from the doorway. They stood silent for a mintute, then a saw their heels turn and they both disappeared into the shadows at the back of the pub.

‘Thank you. Thank you so much.’ I said to the landlord.

I turned the people mover onto the narrow road, my hands trembled on the steering wheel. After about half a mile I ran out of signposts. A black estate car came right up behind me, he flashed his ice white lights as he was a few inches off my tail, then accelerated past me, shaking his fist as he leaned over from his driving seat. With no car behind me, I turned the car round with at least a six point turn. Then soon I met the Nutfield Road, which weaved it’s way slowly through to Redstone Hill. Then to the A23, the road home. I turned off the A23 to the road leading to the block of flats in Mulberry Close. The rain became like a jet wash spray on my windscreen. I turned a tight corner and swept into a small river. My vehicle stuttered and spluttered, and ground to a halt. I was stuck on a blind bend, I banged the steering wheel and cursed myself that I had ignored that mechanical issue. The rain came down harder, beating the roof of my people mover and reminded me of a holiday when I was young in the Lake District, playing cards with my parents in our caravan. Lights were in my rear view mirror, blinding with their full beams, and swerving to avoid collision with me.

I turned the ignition key, my sweaty fingers almost unable to turn it. The sound only of the starter motor. Cars were screaming; there were many horns. Bright blue, flashing lights. The police