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 as 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 in glasses. He claimed to be "the only gay in Omagh" and described himself as a big fan of the "New Romantics", requesting we play Relax by Frankie Goes to Hollywood and Rebel Yell by Billy Idol. Obvious New Romantics. He tried to get past our incredulous looks by saying Billy Idol gave a load of money to the miners during the Miner's Strike, and if we didn't play him we were no better than Margaret Thatcher. It was bollocks, of course. Billy never gave the miners a penny.  He couldn't even be arsed to do Live Aid. He's not a very outward looking man. 

To further ingratiate himself to me, the young man, lets call him Oliver - cause it's his name - took me to one side and said, "Hey! Has anyone ever told you you look like Gary Busey?" 

Short answer, no. Not until this moment. No. 

It's never come up. 

Gary Busey, who cites a motorcycle crash that gave him brain damage and a later cocaine overdose as the reasons he became a born-again Christian? That Gary Busey? The Gary Busey who endorsed Newt Gingrich's presidential campaign, and did the same for Donald Trump. The Gary Busey who served two years probation for criminal sexual conduct? The Gary Busey who looks like this? 

We didn't play any Billy fucking Idol. 

Oliver insisted it was a compliment. But that's not how compliments work, is it? You don't get to tell people that any old thing is a compliment. "Has anyone ever told you look an ulcerated tongue? And I mean that as a compliment!" No. Ollie. No Frankie for you. Besides, during our general chat, before the Abusey, I mentioned I quite like the song Welcome to the Pleasure Dome. Ollie hadn't heard of it, despite it being the fourth single released from Frankie Goes To Hollywood's debut album, but also the fucking NAME of Frankie Goes To Hollywood's debut album. 

Gary fucking Busey. Look at him. At least my eyes are level. He looks like a Picasso sketch. A Picasso sketch of an ulcerated tongue. 

Fine. Joe gets a trailer load of divorcees, and I get to stunt double for Hollywood's busiest hands. I'm the frump, the homely one. Egon to Joe's Peter Venkman. 

Fine. 

The glamour of Belfast's dizzying nightlife. Dazzling.