God is a DJ

“Sorry mate, can’t help you there”

“Arrr ‘kinell, then…have you got…erm”

His eyes glaze over momentarily, eyelids tremble a little, his feet still tapping away, and he swings his head up fast with a mad smile, eyes like piss holes in snow.

“Yeah, howabout…?”

He mumbles another request, one I can help him with.

“Sure boss man” I say and I give him a little smile

He bounces off across the floor like Zebedee and excitedly gives the good news of my approval to his waiting group of mates who all punch the air on receipt.

Ahh de kidz, I scribble it on the list covered with stains of indistinguishable origin and take a swig of water. Slowly sliding the battered faders down and up as the last song disappears from the speakers and the needle moves onto the already spinning record on the other deck. The momentary quiet is filled with the chorus of ever present background of life usually drowned out by my selections.

“A pint of Snakebite cheers”

“S/he’s fit”

“Yeah every Friday, what’s your name?”

“Upstairs, really?”

“Can’t do that mate sorry”

“The DJ was better yesterday”

“Mark, let me guess you look like a Sarah”

“Yes S/he is”

“Ah SHIT, who is that one by?”

“IAMFUCKINGBUZZZINMATE”

“Nah its Lucy, what do you mean I look like…”

“Don’t fancy his/her mate much though”

“Isn’t it…The Cure?”

“Too many students in here for my liking”

“I reckon I would be a great DJ, I’ve got all the records”

“And poseurs”

“Why?”

“Just going for a piss, can you hold this?”

“What was I thinking, Lucy, of course, weren’t that an ace fucking song?”

“S/he’ll do”

“I’m going to make you my bitch”

“Yeah, imagine that getting paid to play records”

“That’s not very ladylike”

“Well I think it’s a bit derivative to be honest”

“I…cos…phew, yeah, yeah hang on…I better sit down for a bit”

“Do you want to get off with us then?”

“Would beat being a bloody phone jockey anyway”

At least I reckon so, I aint been down on the floor in years now and you can’t here that much up here unless they bother to come up and talk to you.  But the song usually remains the same, especially if it’s a good one.

I let the music rise through the cabs again; a hundred battered ears turn their radar looking for old recognition or new excitement.

“Now this is a good song, yeah ok”

“BOLLOCKSTOSITTINGDOWN!”

“Christ, just, made it wouldn’t have wanted to miss this one”

“See, I would have played that one next too, it’s a piece of piss”

“Come on he/she and her mate are dancing now, get the fuck in there”

“No it’s not them…that was…ah fuck it, lets dance”

“Apparently they can’t do snakebite anymore…bugger”

I rummage amongst the world-worn flight case for the next selection and take a another swing of lukewarm water as the guy who requested this tune looks over gives me a quick smile of recognition before losing himself in his own world.

And that, is the fucking point.

By Kenn Taylor

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