I was there because my friend Lester had the brilliant money-making idea of putting on a night in a West End club, not thinking that West End club types expect a certain amount of top 40 music, RnB and a certain standard of DJing. What they got instead was whatever dancehall mashup theheatwave.co.uk was giving away that week fading out two thirds of the way through, a moment's silence and then Bitches Ain't Shit played slightly too loudly.
I'm not saying they should have put up and shut up, I don't think it was punk to make them listen to that stuff, I was totally in the wrong place (ie not the Macbeth) to get away with this appalling standard of DJing. These people paid a fucking tenner to get in and have a good time and all they got was me chatting away to my buddies and not noticing the end of a song had come -and other assorted illegal DJ moves on my part.
Anyway, about a half hour into my set a pretty girl came up and sheepishly handed me a folded piece of till roll, I was pretty excited and thought that maybe this was going to be the first night ever I got laid from djing, but alas, instead of a phone number or a 'meet me by the toilets in ten minutes and I'll spin you round like a record baby' all I got was the cold hard truth.
In case you can't make it out the last line it says I'm not even fit. Yeah, this was a pretty big blow to my confidence.
However, I got this note a little later on, which was a little more positive even if it was off a big mental health nurse, so it all evens out:
I'm never leaving my comfort zone again, it's too much of an emotional rollercoaster.
