CHAPTER SEVEN
LAST NIGHT A DJ RUINED MY LIFE
IF YOU'VE MISSED THE BEGINNING OF THE BOOK IT STARTS HERE
It was gone midnight now and I was walking home through a desolate Holloway Rd. I'd left Paul frantically typing messages into his Blackberry to the patients he'd spurned in order to hear about the experimental open mic I ran. As I'd walked down the hallway to the exit I'd heard him muttering things under his breath like "I've found my Dr Mengele." and “I’m going to get funding.” I began to think back to when Rats was cancelled and what had happened in the eight months that followed. It had not been a blip as I'd first assumed it had actually been the first crack in a massive chasm that would alter my world view forever. Instead of getting the last laugh when my show was commissioned I would once again be playing to deathly silence and the list of people I had to prove wrong was getting so long I was beginning to feel like maybe they were right. Things were bad and there was no work on the horizon. The interest on my debts were racketing up.7K at the time of writing. There just weren’t enough hours in the day to work in a bar and write a sit-com. So I’d had to pay myself on my credit card and through my overdraft. Felt like a calculated risk as I'd either get my TV show commissioned or if that didn't happen pick up some more shifts at the bar. My financial plan had not taken into account my TV show sitting in a commissioners junk folder and being fired from my bar job.
I began to think about how all my relationships felt like a war. I'm not just talking about lovers. Friends, family, colleagues it was always a battle. People misread me or misunderstood me. I was always wrong and there would be lengthy discussions on why that was so. I'd sit there nodding my head saying things like "you are 100% right" to placate people. I'd often hear things like "I've never seen them behave like that before what did you do?" or "ok because of this guy the party is over. Time for everyone to leave." I once read a Malcolm Gladwell book I'm ashamed to say. I didn't buy it with my own money. He's one of those authors who makes the majority of his sales from relatives who don't know what to buy people for Christmas. I'll give the guy some credit I finished the book and there was an interesting bit about the difference between herdsman and farmers that resonated. The culture that grows up around both is very different. The herdsman is a loner living in a rocky terrain in constant fear of his herd being stolen in the night whereas it's very difficult to steal a farm, what are you going to do harvest all the farmers crops in an evening when he's asleep. Farmers are pretty secure they survive on cooperation from the community, but a herdsman is a loner geographically out casted from society. Both create two very different personality types. As a result of the constant threat to his livelihood the herdsman has to make clear through his words and deeds using fear and respect to show that he is not weak and ensure that people are afraid of stealing so his flock is not stolen.It’s a culture of honour when resources are scarce. I was not a farmer that's for sure, I was a herdsman who currently had no herd, family or respect.Just a crazy man who shouted at people from a mountain. It was time to totter down to the village and see who was selling some goats.
As I turned the key in the door of my flat the last night of Rats in 2017 was still on loop in my head as I dived fully clothed into my bed. I didn't know at the time but the next depressing chapter of my life was about to start. I remember I got chatting to someone in the audience. As was often the case at Rats, anything to delay having to bring another awful act to the stage. I asked them what they did
"I’m a DJ"
“I used to be a DJ”
"could you cover me on Saturday?"
“Where?”
" the Icy Igloo in Snowy Fantasy world." (name has been changed for legal reasons and so I can work there again)
What could go wrong with taking a job that someone shouted at you from the audience of a sparsely attended open mic night.
DJ’ing is not work, it’s a skill, but it’s not work. I used to be a full-time Juke Box DJ in Pubs and clubs, but I stopped for a number of reasons. First the invention of the i-pod. It used to be only DJ's had an endless supply of music as they were obsessive OCD weirdos. Thanks to the I-pod everyone now had an endless supply of music at a click of a button. First this meant that you were expected to have every track ever recorded and if you said you didn't some drunk goon would frantically wave their i-pod in front of you telling you to plug it in and play the awful track they were asking for. The I-pod also sent your fees plummeting. I lost count of the promoters and bar owners who told me in negotiations that they'd just plug an i-pod in instead if I didn't want to do it for £100. BIP it was £250
The other reason I stopped was at the peak of my success I had a rival. A guy called Brian Love. Brian wore a tan leather trench coat, had more hair product than Super Drug and had the personality of a sack of raw porridge. Brian was very jealous that I was a young successful DJ at the club he went to. He had his eyes on my job. At the time I was keeping a blog not dissimilar to this about my daily life. I didn't think anyone read it but it turned out someone had been reading it pretty avidly and I was about to find out who that was when the owner called me in for a meeting at the club. It was dark she was sat at the end of a long table. The venue had recently been refurbished, they hadn't listened to my advice which was turn it into a theatre bar with red velvet and vintage theatre posters, much to the anger of our members who all worked in the theatre, instead they'd painted it lime green and put in furniture that made sitting on a spike seem comfortable. "Harry if you would like to keep your job here I'd like you to take your blog off the internet" I squinted I couldn't really get a read on her face in the darkness. Why was it so dark in here. I thought about it for a second, what should I do keep a job with a nice weekly wage, a free bar tab and the keys to the place or stand up for a free and fair press. To be honest. I thought she was bluffing. It would be my word against Brian's he'd have just told her about it to scare me so I said
"No, I haven't done anything wrong."
And that's when Brian Love stepped out from the shadows and slid a dossier across the table. The little creep hiding in the shadows. He'd splashed out, it was bound and had a hard plastic cover. I was dazed, the way he stepped out of the shadows. I don’t know what was sadder that he’d printed the dossier or choreographed his entrance. I pictured their meeting before I got there
“You tell him to take the blog off the internet, he’ll say no then I’ll step out of the shadows”
“And if he says he’ll take it down?”
“I’ll just stay in the shadows till he leaves. We’ll need the dossier another time believe me”
I looked it over, every incriminating piece of evidence I'd mentioned in my blog the stealing of alcohol, the after-hours parties all highlighted in yellow. I stood up and said
“I will never DJ again in this totalitarian Hell hole”
I picked up the dossier and stormed out never to return. Once again I had inspired someone to go to great lengths to wrong me. I don't know anyone who has a rival in real life let alone someone who has had all their transgressions printed up in a dossier and presented to them. Was I living in a 19th century French novel. I'd have killed that guy in a duel so he hid in the shadows and crawled out and backstabbed me. I got the last laugh as the next time I saw Brian Love was five years later and he was wearing a Mary Poppins t-shirt under his tan leather jacket. Apparently, he’d been fired as the theatre manager and demoted to usher and rumours swirled that it was because he'd been #mettooed
That was a long time ago I had new rivals to worry about so let’s go back to December 2017. After the show, I began to chat with the guy who had heckled me with a job offer. It was hard to take him seriously, he also made me buy him a drink as if he was doing me a favour. A clever mind trick. This was the bottom rung of show business one tramp offering another the crusts of a Pret sandwich found in a bin. You hear stories of people getting signed up at an open mic night and becoming world-wide stars. I was getting a gig DJ’ing in a park in winter. But here I was when one door closes another opens, though where I was going there were no doors as it was an outdoor event in the midst of winter. I’d only been to Snowy Fantasy Land twice before; the first time was when a friend set me up on a date with a friend of theirs who loved roller coasters. I hate roller coasters; well I’m scared of roller coasters but in the pursuit of love I went on one with her for what was the most terrifying 5 minutes of my life. I remember being sat there in complete silence, hands clasped shut on the safety rail of the flimsy train we were in taking deep breathes telling myself if it was my time it was my time. Children's laughter filled the air like we were on a Thomas the Tank engine ride not Space Mountain. We then left Snowy Fantasy Land and proceeded to drink copious amounts of alcohol. My friend had neglected to tell me this girl could not handle her booze. After what I thought, considering the circumstances, had been an alright date she stood up in the pub and started shouting at me before storming out. I rang my friend the next day to tell her what had happened. She quizzically responded with "You didn't let her drink?" First I didn't "let" her drink it was a date not a hostage situation second of all she did not come with any instructions stapled to her so how was I to know she couldn't handle her drink. Also, I risked my life on a roller coaster for this girl and I’m the one who gets shouted at in a pub. I was livid. I went one other time with a girl I was in an abusive relationship with (her abusing me). We were with her family who thought they’d entered the ancient lost city of the Incas not an alfresco pound shop selling overpriced mulled wine and German craft. There was an hour queue to get in and everything was expensive and not even unique. I remember saying at the time I'd only ever come back here if you paid me and now the universe had answered my call. As always when the universe spoke to me it was with a caveat.
So, I took the gig. It might have been a good gig but I was given Mondays and Tuesdays which it turned out are the most popular nights to bring your baby to Snowy Fantasy Land. I say nights my shifts were actually whole days from 15:00 till 23:00. I had to DJ in sub minus temperatures with no heating, I was outside on a giant stage playing music to babies. I rang up my contact to tell him how cold it was, and he agreed.
"you need to put cardboard on the floor of the stage, like homeless people do."
"I’ve never seen a homeless person DJ before"
"Not when they DJ when they sleep on the pavement in winter."
I wonder if Fatboy Slim has ever had this sort of conversation with his manager. I shouldn't complain the money was good, and I was my own boss, well the guy who ran the zone I was working in was my boss. He would occasionally come over to me and shout at me for not playing enough Robbie Williams. I’m used to being shouted at for playing Robbie Williams. He was very stressed all the time. I guess this is what happens when your business is having to think about Christmas 365 days a year. He was a fellow herdsman for sure. He was the archetypal tight Northerner. In the Icy Igloo there were various huts with people grilling things that they claimed was meat. Everything came with or in a baked potato. He looked at me like he wished I was an i-pod, I pictured him using my nose as the scroll button and poking me in the eye repetitively until he found a Robbie Williams playlist. He had a permanent air of misery hovering over him, the type of misery that only takes root in people whose job it is to serve the public. He was constantly on a war footing the only time this guy would be happy is when he was dead and even then I’m not so sure. In fact he made me believe in Ghosts. This is exactly the type of person I imagined would haunt people. Someone who thought they didn’t deserve the warm release of death their misery and all the misery they gave the world needed to be permanent. His spirit forever trapped between here and the neverworld dragging his misery around with him like a concrete block.
It was part of my job to get people to come to the Icy Igloo. I was supposed to do this by making announcements on the microphone. If Snowy Fantasy Land was the worst place to be in London the Icy Igloo was the worst place to be in Snowy Fantasy Land. Wall to wall Robbie Williams hits, the only audience babies and food so bad it wouldn't be out of place on trial in a court of law. I'd say things like "that was Angels by Robbie Williams. Do you know where Angles live? Heaven, also known as the Icy Igloo. So why not pop in for a hot chocolate and baked potato" Ferris wheels would turn, candy floss would spin and mulled wine would flow and nothing I'd say would stop that or get anyone to come in to the Icy Igloo. My other job was to introduce various live acts. I'd describe the standard of acts as sub X factor. Cover artists. The worst of which was a father and son duo. Neither had any talent nor charisma but the kid was cute and was used as a Trojan horse to get people in to watch the dad live out his failed show biz dream. His sons catchphrase was "dad you are so embarrassing" which would get big laughs his dad would then sing a serious ballad and his son would break dance. They'd get people in though which sickened me as it was a gimmick. There was also an Ed Sheeran tribute act who shared only two similarities with the real deal he was ginger and was completely talentless. As soon as they’d finished people would leave and I’d be DJ’ing to babies again. The other live entertainment was a saxophonist who'd accompany my DJ'ing, his bad breath was amplified through his horn like a halitosis megaphone. Who needs cinnamon and cloves when you have the smell of stale cigarettes and alcohol wafting through the crisp winter air mixed with baked potatoes and mystery meat.
Apart from hypothermia and DJ'ing in a vacuum it was better than working in zero hours Neverland. Since I’d stopped DJ’ing not only had my price gone down but so had the attractiveness of being a DJ. Who wants to fuck a glorified I-pod. Also, can't imagine the pied piper of Snowy Fantasy Land luring people into the Icy Igloo for a miserable evening was very attractive, "that’s the guy who made me waste £7 on a hot chocolate when he told me to come to heaven." On a weirdly busy night when I could actually do my job as there were more than five people over the age of three I did manage to get the place jumping so much so that the stage collapsed and a ton of fake snow landed on my head. I packed up my stuff and a girl grabbed my arm "where are we going" she enquired. "Where would you like to go" I said " I really need the toilet" "I know a Pizza Hut on Oxford Street" not the most romantic opening gambit but who needs romance when you have alcohol.We walked arm in arm. Her telling me what a good DJ I was on the way. Just before we got to Pizza Hut she started kissing me something I'm always surprised about when it happens. Why would anyone kiss me? Usually it was either because they had a diagnosed mental disorder, liked collecting stray dogs off the street or had daddy issues and mistook my clinical depression for being cool and remote. This all felt too good to be true. Maybe I’d been doing it wrong all these years surely it couldn’t be that all you needed to do was take a girl to a toilet and not spend all this money on restaurants and alcohol. It was the first bit of luck for six months, what was the catch. We got to Pizza Hut and I walked her downstairs me and my beautiful queen to her toilet throne. She took one look at the clientele and screeched "I can't piss in here it's full of Muslims" ahh that was the catch she was a massive racist. I said to her I'd wait outside and let her wage her holy war. I stood outside thinking about it, it had been a while how desperate was I. Could I fuck a racist. Maybe the way to punish this dyed in the wall racist was to get into a relationship with her bring her into my miserable life that would teach her. She came back upstairs. I kissed her one more time. Just to stop her saying anything else racist. My charity work was done for the evening; it was Christmas in a few days she would be my gift to some other lucky fucker. It was my last gig before Xmas tomorrow and then after that I had one more on NYE
The next evening, I stood on my piece of cardboard keeping an eye out for hot racists wondering how had I got here. I concluded it was 9/11's fault. I'd had some tickets booked to go to LA in September 2001 to do an interview with a big Hollywood director. It was cancelled as a result of 9/11. Because of 9/11 I was now London’s premier baby and tourist DJ. In a parallel life those planes never hit the towers and I'm a big cheese in LA. Instead I’m in the background of photos taken by families from Morocco thru Thailand stood on a raised stage with an icicle hanging off my nose standing on a piece of cardboard as their friends and family members ask when shown them “Is that DJ homeless"
Maybe for Christmas I'd get a better life. Maybe Santa would give me twenty grand so I could start again. Christmas dragged I wanted 2018 to start that's when my TV show would get commissioned,I was getting all the bad stuff out the way so the good stuff could happen. Everyone has bad years. New years eve 2017 it struck midnight, I was DJ’ing in a pub where me and the clientele disagreed on what good music was. The owner came over dead on midnight said happy new year and that was the only person I spoke to all night. He handed me a confetti cannon. The limp hand shake symbolised my drab 2017 and the confetti cannon explosion was going to be my 2018.
CHAPTER EIGHT IS HERE I GET A DJ'ING PROMOTION TO A VENUE INDOORS AND WE TAKE A DEEP DIVE INTO THE DATING LIFE OF PENNILESS PRINCIPLED CHARISMATIC LOSER.
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