Cross a DJ with a Nerd, you get a Seb.
Archive for October, 2003
Shallow? Moi?
Oct 27th
Saturday night was crap. It’s due to the fact that the annual Pride Party is next weekend, and that the punters don’t seem to grasp that you can go out and enjoy yourself two weeks in a row. They’re scared that they’ll suffer snare roll overload and explode on the spot in a shower of feathers, glitter and dodgy faux-leather trousers. If only.
So Scout and I were up in the box, playing tribal and electro to the semi-crowd, and actively people watching. I noticed that the gay scene at first seems to be quite diverse, but on closer inspection can be broken down into simple groups. All of these were present on the dancefloor last night….
Yo-mosexuals – Usually young and overtanned. Watch far too many Missy Elliott videos and dress like extras in a Beyonce video. Dance like Paula Abdul before she lost all the chins.
Faux-mosexuals – Muscular, tanned and gorgeous. Don’t appear to own any shirts. Will flirt outrageously with everyone in the club before telling them that they have a girlfriend. Can be found at five a.m declaring undying love to a pre-op tranny known to them as Tahlisa but to everyone else as Robbo.
Woe-mosexuals – Drunk by mid-afternoon. Usually break up with long term partner, then spend the next two years going clubbing, bursting into tears and sharing their sad tale with anyone who hasn’t got a restraining order against them. Always reek of cider.
Blow-mosexuals – Sweaty and usually under the influence of the small pharmacy they’ve just ingested. Can be found running in and out of the toilets at regular intervals and seem to find nothing wrong with the art of seduction being accompanied by the smell of bleach and urinal cakes. Very popular with faux-mosexuals.
Glow-mosexuals – Twentysomethings who never realised that the ‘Crasher kid look died overseas the moment Scary Spice turned up in ‘beefa with pipe cleaners her hair screaming ‘Let’s fookin’ ‘ave it!’. Also fail to realise that people are hesitant to try picking them up when they’ve gone for a ‘Cyndi Lauper 2029′ look and as a result are constantly amazed that they are single.
Phone-osexuals – Big technology fans that spend most of the night in the middle of the dancefloor at peak time, answering their mobile phone and glaring at the dj because they can’t hear themselves speak. Seem to suffer from a constant need to receive updates from their hairdresser about the progression of her hen’s night. Can easily be recognised by their cry of “WHAT? WHERE ARE YOU??” as they try to push their phone into their ear canal. Do not appear to have heard of going outside, which is a terrible shame for everyone else.
Go-mosexuals – Shirtless and sweaty. Usually arrive at the beginning of the night with dilated pupils and jaw grinding. Immediately jump up on a podium and dance to a song a good twenty beats per minute faster than it is. Spend a lot of time yelling at the dj and making helpful ‘pump it up’ hand gestures, and scream the place down at the suggestion of a snare roll or any form of breakdown. Dance all night, then spend the next day at the office bothering Cheryl from accounts with vague recollections of their night and recommending that she buy some green mitsubishis for her son’s christening.
Slow-mosexuals – A neverending stream of whining nineteen year olds who constantly demand the dj play the new Kylie single. Can usually be found picking large shards of vinyl out of their eyeball after asking ‘why not?’ five times in succession.
And me? I think I’m a in a sub-phylum of sorts. It’s fabulous, of course and very hard to get into……
Rugger Bugger
Oct 20th
Well, it all begins with me arriving at my Wednesday night gig with a great big box of house tunes, ready to play another set to the mirrorball humping masses. As I approached the venue I noticed that it looked it had quite a large amount of people crammed into it at the early hour of eight pm.
Feeling that this was a bit peculiar, but being open to the possibility of unleashing a bit of disco mayhem to an already busy room rather than having to gently coax them to par-tay by playing cheesy shite and batting my eyelids in the hope that Gazza and Mandy Punter will dance and therefore save my career, I ran inside, all excited and happy.
The excited/happy feeling soon changed into one of abject horror. The main room was decked out with rugby flags, and had a twenty-five foot blow up mascot in the corner. On the far wall was a massive screen showing two truckloads of beefcake chasing a funny looking ball on what at first appeared to be someone’s front lawn but I was later informed was a ‘playing field’.
The room was filled with men, which would normally please me no end, but these men were a bit different to our normal crowd. They had no product in their hair. The hair on my neck would have stood up in horror, were it not plastered down with gel wax.
These men were either staring up at the screen, or chewing on the supplied barbecue and swigging beer. The majority of them looked to be in their late thirties, and were invariably either sunburnt to within an inch of their lives or looked like they had walked into their local plastic surgeon and asked for ‘The Grand Canyon’ (TM). The sound system was pumping out some weird rugby anthem/rock ballad, and they all nodded along as they chewed and slurped and sent grooming product retail outlets bankrupt.
Absolutely terrified, I sidled up to the lighting tech, and asked if I was still required tonight, because to me, it didn’t look like they were really ready for the services of the gayest dj in the southern hemisphere and his little box of Minogue.
‘Yeah, It’s the South African Springbok supporters. They’ve taken over the venue for a week. Be careful, they’re all shitfaced and arrogant. Have a good set.” He replied, encouragingly, before scampering off.
So there I am. Poof with a job to do. I sent two messages to my nearest and dearest leaving them my collection should I be beaten to death with a lamb chop, then stepped up to the mixer. I grabbed my first record, and carefully faded out a cheerful rendition of Rugby fave “Kill the bastards, Eh!!” by The Springbok Seven.
No. Baaaaad Move. If you are ever in the same circumstance, do not do this. Every head in the room instantly turned towards me. Slightly deterred, but with nothing else to lose, I started up the four/four beat. Worse move. Five red faced South African men climbed up the steps to the console and immediately began shouting at me.
“Whoareyou!!!”
“Whossaidyoucoodooothat??”
“Putthetbeckonummediately”
“Whereusourmusuc?”
“WHAT’S THUS SHUT?? UDIOT!!”
I opened and closed my mouth, stuttering as I tried to think of some way to bring on spontaneous combustion.
“I….um…..the lighting tech….it’s just that….I always….it’s eight o’clock and….”
“THUS US PATHETUC!!!” bellowed one of the men, before marching off in search of the venue’s owner. The others continued to yell at me until he returned, with a very apologetic looking manager in tow. It took him five minutes to calm them down and explain that I was there to play to our regular crowd, who would be arriving any minute.
They muttered a bit more, then under sufferance agreed to leave me alone to do my job. The regular crowd started to filter in, and the Springbok lovers slowly filtered out. About nine-thirty, one of the guys that had gone all ‘Taxi Driver’ on me earlier marched up and demanded his rugby anthems cd, looking at me like I was some brown thing he’d just discovered on the bottom of his shoe. I handed it over, and he snatched it out of my hands and walked off without saying a word.
Shuthead.
Of course, I won’t say that I wouldn’t like to hang out with them again. Especially when a big bunch of them demand to hear their precious cd, someone puts it in the player, and Dannii Minogue starts to belt out “This Is It”.
Having a spare Dannii cd to slip in their cd case…….priceless. For everything else, there’s Mastercard. ..
Hyperventilation For The Nation
Oct 20th
I’m 31 now. I’m positively mature and responsible, apparently. I decided to do something completely out of character for my 31st birthday. I left the relative comfort and safety of my everyday life and flew off to have an adventure in Melbourne.
Sounds easy doesn’t it? It’s not always. Being diagnosed as an agoraphobic isn’t all it’s cracked up to be. The very thought of venturing outside my normal cycle of work, home, work, Dannii Minogue museum of natural history, home and work can be mind bogglingly indimidating..
Which of course makes it very strange that I chose to trek all the way over to the other side of the country, on my own, to celebrate my birthday. I have actually been known to book a flight, and overcome with blind gay boy panic (which generally involves organizing my Bananarama cd’s in chronological order as a practised form of avoidance) have sat at home as the plane takes off and some unknown peon feasts on my vegetarian meal whilst wiggling their toes greedily in my extra legroom.
This time I decided it would be different. Knowing that I would freak out at the last minute, I asked for some help from my downstairs neighbour (a gorgeous yoga teacher) a couple days in advance. She was to come up and watch over me as I packed, then an hour before I was due at the airport, she was to return and gently coax me out of the hall cupboard, place my suitcase in my hand, and call me a taxi. Then she was to give the driver explicit instructions to take me directly to the airport, and before I knew it I would be in Melbourne. Even if she had to crack me over the head with a blunt object and drag me to the airport herself. Which would be quite an impressive feat, seeing as I’m six foot five and solidly built, and she’s five foot one and struggles to open a box of Coco Pops unassisted.
So the morning arrives, I awaken, and of course, I’m in a blind panic. Mainly because it appears that I was so anxious the night before I had already arranged all of my cd’s in alpha-chronological order, leaving me with no form of procrastination or distraction. While considering whether to organize the jars in the fridge by their size and expiry date, my lovely downstairs neighbour knocked at the door.
“It’s no good trying to hide, I can hear you arranging your Spice Girls dolls in order of fabulousness” She yelled.
“I SO AM NOT!!” I protested, shoving Posh under the nearest couch.
“You’re going to Melbourne!!” She squealed enthusiastically through the gap under the door. “Aren’t you excited??”
“Sure am!” I replied. It was true. I was really looking forward to it. As long as I didn’t have to leave the house.
“You do realize that in order to get there, you have to open the door and leave the house” she offered, helpfully.
“Sure do” I winced, cursing my lack of a matter transporting device that could send me directly there, helpfully re-routing my excess belly somewhere it could never return, just like Mariah Carey’s credibility.
“YOUR LAP’S SKIING NEAR URANUS” She muttered, starting to get annoyed with me.
“Eh?”
“Your cat’s peeing in your trainers!!”
I cursed the furry bladder I shared a house with and lunged for the front door, opening it to find downstairs girl looking self-satisfied as she sighed and passed me the shoes I’d left on the front step. She’d tricked me. Having been outsmarted by her psuedo-urine ruse, I flopped down on the couch and proceeded to pout.
“There’s nothing to worry about you know. You’ll be fine once you get there. Where’s your suitcase?” She recited, as if she had been rehearsing all week.
“I know I said I would do this, and that you had to ignore it, but I might go next week instead, it’s just that..” I bleated.
“SHUT UP. YOU ARE GOING. YOU ARE NOT GOING TO FREAK OUT. WHERE IS YOUR SUITCASE?” she stated, slowly and in the tone you normally reserve for a five year old girl who has spent three months asking constantly for a glow in the dark shetland pony called ‘Princess’. Without waiting for a reply, she went from room to room until she found my suitcase, and dragged it out into the hallway. She was being most un-yoga teacher. She was being a lot more like my English Lit teacher, Mrs Barnes, who used to yell and wave her arms about wildly whenever someone mispronounced a really difficult word. Sheer pedantics, the pair of them. And don’t even get me started on the bad perms.
“Okay.” said yoga-Mussolini. She grabbed my phone and ordered me a taxi. Just as I was considering hitting her over the head with Sporty Spice and making a run for it, it arrived. I hate efficiency.
I pretended that my feet were glued to the stairs for a few minutes, but after much encouragement from yoga-Mussolini and death stares from cab man, I let go of the railing and walked down. Before I knew it, I was on the way to the airport, yoga-Mussolini had disappeared in the distance, and cab man was muttering something about the great tits of the last passenger. Fifteen minutes and a terribly confusing diatribe about shaven cats being taxi man’s personal preference, (the whole journey was way too ‘Dear Penthouse Forum’ for my liking) we arrived at the terminal. Before I could panic further I had registered at the check in, showed my piercings to airport security (I bleeped five times before they let me through) and was sitting comfortably in the departure lounge. Easy. After all that panic, I had made it, was completely safe and had nothing to worry about…….
…so just as soon as I’d thrown up twice in the toilets, followed by five minutes of extremely calm hyperventilation I was on the plane. A fantastic seven day holiday in Melbourne followed, and I lived happily ever after.
Until I found out that my cat actually had peed in my trainers.