I went a bit deranged this week from taking too much work on and have realised that I’ll have to slow down or I’m in danger of climbing up a tower and throwing Ministry of Sound compilations at innocent bystanders, screaming ‘Request this, motherf***ers!!’.

Take the last five days for example. Here’s a nice, easy to read, diary style recounting of my neural meltdown.

Friday – Go into club, pick up printing, lights and new email list. Go home, type 150 new email addresses into database. Accidently delete. Swear loudly, eat large packet of chips, then enter again. Save on a cd, a 3″disc and print a hard copy. Realise that all of them have already been entered by someone else who didn’t mark the sheets as done. Drink a litre of Vanilla Coke and swear loudly. Go into club for bar manager’s shift, get told that we are one staff member short. Decide that’s okay, but then regret turning up as all other staff make excuses to leave with the exception of one very tired whiny barperson. Do entire close with two people when it normally takes four. Get fingers tangled in random clump of hair and dry retch for ten minutes. Make mental note that all persons entering the nightclub should be bald or shaved from this day forth. Go home and have strange nightmares about alcoholic hairballs getting in my way as I try and mop up a roomful of fat homosexuals.

Saturday – Get up, organize records and go into club to record promo giveaway mix cd. Get home with finished mix and find a slightly dodgy moment at the end. Try to edit mix, and erase entire disc. Swear, throw Ginger Spice Doll out of window, pack records for night’s gig. Go to gig with minidisc player, and re-do mix. Cheer up as it all goes well. Begin to feel really tired, so lock door to dj box, stating to the world ‘NO VISITORS’. Wearily smile, hug and make small talk with sixty people who all think ‘NO VISITORS’ doesn’t mean them. Finish gig, go home in bad mood brought on by exhaustion and visitors. Dream about living in a caravan that has no door. Wake up shouting at my pillow.

Sunday – Get up, run off master copy of mix cd from minidisc, make fifty copies, pack records, go to gig. Am more tired than ever before. Lock door and threaten death to any staff that let someone in to dj box. Play gig until 3am, go home and collapse. Dream about costume malfunctions. Wake up with large erection.

Monday – Day off. Listen to a copy of mix cd, and realise to my horror that it stops dead and cuts off the last two tracks of the mix for no apparent reason. Confirm that all copies given out with my name all over the cover are the same. Eat two packets of twistes and swig a litre of iced coffee. Spend evening with pals, talking too fast about nothing in particular and grinding teeth. Go home and dream about marrying the club’s manager and having mindblowing threesomes with her and some unknown hot man. Decide that she might not want to know about this dream, owing to her being a lesbian. Resolve to tell her anyway.

Tuesday – Get up after four hour’s sleep, walk into city for day job. Open store, smile blearily at customers until record shipment arrives. Sit in office for five hours, processing four boxes of import vinyl. End up doing two hours unpaid overtime, due to the delivery being late. Walk to club, collect mountain bike, proceed to cycle home. Halfway home get knocked off bike by idiot bimbo who goes through stop sign and then drives off. Get back on bike, try to follow her while shouting obscenities but just fall off bike again. Get up and walk bike home. Curse bike for not being equipped with heat seeking missiles. Once home, sit at computer for three hours, waiting until email that is supposed to be sent to me at six finally gets sent at nine. Copy information to html format, upload new pics, send out to mailing list. Have huge problems with embedded pictures and eventually go to bed after fixing the problem at one a.m. Dream of arguing with other assistant manager about me having to take on all of his workload because he’s moving to Disneyland. Halfway through dream he turns into a pickled onion. Wake up sweating and strangling a pillow.

Wednesday – Get up, turn head to look out window, pull neck muscle. Go into club for weekly four hour meeting. One hour into meeting suddenly burst into tears while making completely non-tear requiring point and end up saying things like “I just can’t….can’t….bhaaaagggg….hyyyyyglll..cahuckkkk…..snurfle….”. Realise while looking at disturbed faces around me that I’ve gone stark raving bonkers and should just shut up. Totally ignore calm, soothing voices while trying to stop leaky eye problem. Try speaking again. Stop immediately as throat is so tight voice resembles powerpuff girl.
Resolve to just be red and squelchy for a while until moment passes. Nod in agreeance as other management suggest that I’ve taken too much on and need to leave everything else and just concentrate on my djing for a couple of weeks.
Go home feeling relieved but really really embarrassed over whole sobby snotty cry-ey thing. Pack records for gig, pull other side of neck carrying records to gig. Spend night walking around like Herman Munster in a Diesel cap and t-shirt. Dream about waking up every five minutes in immense pain. Realise it’s not a dream. Do the cry-ey thing again.

Thursday – Try to get up. Ow. Neck completely immobilised. Wince with pain every time I try to move. Eventually manage to get up and loosen muscles in hot shower. Realise that this is completely stress related and resolve to cancel tonight’s gig and relax at home. Ring promoter who tells me to ring club owner. Ring owner who sounds very unhappy at the prospect, but offers to find a replacement. Calls back three hours later saying that he can only get someone in from eleven, and can I do the first hour. Racked with guilt, I agree. To make it easier, club owner suggests that I stand there and play a mix cd if it’s easier for me. I agree, and walk to chemist to buy upsized super deluxe combo pack of Voltaren and Nurofen. Read on box of painkillers that it is unwise to take more than six in 24 hours, so decide to take 8 in four hours. Begin to feel immensely stoned. Grab mix cd and two records, float downstairs to car and drive on a shiny moonbeam to club. Once there, play cd while standing behind decks with headphones on and two records spinning, pretending to dj. Fill dancefloor. Gaze dreamily at lights as painkillers really kick in, and give new Kylie picture disc to next dj because he’s ‘so lovely’, even though previously I’ve never said more than two words to him. Proceed to wish him a “Fab……. thingy…….good….see…..bye..bye…” then float down to car to return home. Two hours later, regret giving away Kylie record and curse painkillers while ordering another copy on the net.

So now it’s early Friday morning, my neck is killing me and I’m processing the last few days. My mission is in the next two weeks decide whether to give up some work, change some aspects of my life (maybe a short course in learning to ‘let go’?) or to just learn to tell most of the people around me to get f***ed more often. In fact, having just written it, I think it might be a combination of all three.

Whatever I do, I HAVE to write more in my blog. It’s the one thing I really miss. That and sex with beefy porn stars.