The Clamour of the Glamour
I was DJing over the weekend. That's a too glamorous and highfalutin description of what it is I do. I sit in the corner of an upstairs room in a pub and play songs by The Associates, while film clips of Penda's Fen and The Owl Service are projected on a screen. This goes on for many, many hours, and appears to be something approaching community service, as remuneration is slight as cheese parings. Normally, I have a DJing partner, though he'd double-booked himself and was across town interviewing an author. That's the sort of people we are. He arrived two and a half hours into my set and took the reins, and I hit the dance floor, something I do all too rarely. I bloody felt it the next day, I can tell you. Doing this gig can be injurious to my self-esteem. At the end of the night my DJing partner was propositioned by an entire taxi full of drunk, middle-aged women who wanted to show him a good time. I, conversely, was cornered, earlier in the evening, by a boy...
