As our proud nation buckles like an arthritic giraffe under the colossal weight of our current economical decline and people are turned away daily from their places of work it's good to know that those whom occupy the more frivolous and tawdry corners of the employed world are still trading their piddlingly negligible wares for a trade off of wedges of cash and the smiles of a few thousand children.
Well, it would be a lovely dysentery tinted view to have, but I'm afraid even our jockey de disque célèbre seem to be letting the side down. You see, the other night I found myself in the company of several inebriated compadres, all of whom were riled to the point of riotous acts bought on by the fact we were unable, nee´ unwilling, to partake in a pub quiz. We arrived at the pub intent on flexing our vast and varying talents in the exhaustive world of general knowledge and our fantastic capacity to drink ale and devour bags of dried pig skin. Stray hair included.
To cut a long story short we refused to do the quiz because it was far too fucking busy and we couldn't find a solitary seat in the house, the whole place seemed to be filled with either profesional sad bastards who turn up to every quiz going in a 12 mile radius or tables occupied by cheating fucking students.
After voiciferously commenting on our miffed situation and coming close to having an altercation with three Gordon Gecko looking Tories who seemed to be either confused, shocked or aroused by the fact that the outline of my penis was visible beneath my jeans we left to find more salubrious environs; We didn't find any and went to a fucking student night at KOKO instead.
Now student nights on a whole are dreadful places to be unless:
A: You are so drunk that the walls you are enclosed in have absolutely no bearing or influence on the current state of your brain.
B: You haven't had sex in such a long time that the thought of a wide eyed, barely legal first year student fresh from mummy's arms and intent on 'finding herself/himself' balances out against the fact she/he will be fucked out her/his skull on three WKDs and so absorbed and bewildered with everything that it all becomes 'random' to her/him.
C: You are a first year student fresh from mummy's arms, with a loan and zero capacity for alcahol matched only by the same limited capacity to say 'no' to any sexual advance.
Even then you should be questioning your sanity....unless of course you are 'B', which was a trick to test you.
Anyhow, this is the place we found ourselves, some of us 'A's some of us 'B's and plenty who were 'C's but thankfully unconnected to us in any way. This is where the core of what I'm attempting to express comes into play; I seem to have trailed off course somewhat.
If anyone reading this is unaware of Zane Lowe then I shall not do you the dis-service of pointing you in his direction.
KOKO at this point was more than likely at capacity and it's stage was adorned with large flashing lights, turntables, televisions and a gangly streak of piss with an effluent devouring grin. Let it not be my judgment to to speculate on old Zane's wage packet for the evenings 'work', but I'm pretty fucking sure it was about £3000 or so...I could be way off the mark but I doubt it and for any amount of money being payed you would have thought anyone would have the courtesy to play at least one song in it's entirety and not just 30 second snippets of songs 'mixed' into one another. He's djing indie and pop songs not fucking dance music, he's Zane Lowe not Carl fucking Cox. Oh, and what else is he doing? He's only dancing around the stage like a complete and utter cunt, mugging it to the crowd like he's Bono. Bono, there's another cunt who needs to get some self respect.
If I'm out and want to dance I want to hear Smells Like Teen Spirit all the way through, not up to the end of the first chorus where it is swiftly and quite terribley segued into Katy Perry, which in turn transforms into Oasis before ones feet and brain have even had the time to compute what the fuck is going on, making dancing a fucking mathematically impossible task to comprehend and leaving said person twitching and spasming on the spot, terrified of starting to do the Macarena in case it turns into This Charming fucking Man.
Zane, are you not being payed enough to warrant the punters hearing a full song?
Is it some kind of odd recession tactics employed to give people the impression they are having a good time and getting value for money whilst you yourself take a pay cut? I somehow fucking doubt that.
When I go to a wedding, which, granted, are few and far between, the DJs ALWAYS know what is required of them. They play great songs to throngs of pissed up revelers who want to dance and cop off with people and the only difference between a wedding and that night were a few more people and a few less cummerbunds.
Oh fuck me! That's another thing, not only was he not content with letting us hear a full song, he then had the audacity to talk over the top of the snippets like a fucking waltzer operator, at one point I was pretty sure he was going to tell someone their blue Volvo had been clamped.
DJs should be heard and not seen and they should be fucking grateful of their precarious position because they can very easily be replaced with a far more efficient entertainer, the jukebox.
They only cost a quid for five songs.