Drunk DJ at School Disco

My early ambitions of becoming a world-class DJ were thwarted at the
tender age of fifteen-and-three-quarters when a stout policeman,
noticing that I was drunk, stopped me in mid-set.

I had been deejaying at the school disco, provided by the local
constabulary, and had drunk Thunderbird wine and Sweetheart Stout
halfway through it. A friend and I had stashed the bottles - behind the
bike sheds, funnily enough - and had let the policeman take over the
decks during our break.

A lot was at stake. We were providing the entertainment for an array of
starkly different groups and cliques. We had to keep everyone
happy.

There were Mods in vast, dark green parkas with hoods up, shiny loafers
and striped, polyester trousers. They would proudly dance to Going
Underground by The Jam and made it a matter of honour to be on the
floor by the time the first guitar chord rang out, four rapid drum
beats into the song. Rockers in Wrangler denim jackets, cuffs folded
back, collars up, Motorhead t-shirts, black stretch-canvas jeans and
white Nike trainers, playing air guitar with legs spread - a style of
dance the school authorities later banned after a nun decreed it was
"simulation of masturbation." Punks in ripped and sleeveless Sid
Vicious t-shirts, black drainpipes and hair sticking up with soap,
pogo-ing all over the hall to The Sex Pistols' God Save The Queen;
Posers, combing their hair as they danced, wore lambswool Y-Cardigans,
baggy trousers elasticated at the ankle and soft, laceless shoes. They
danced to Duran Duran, Howard Jones, Kajagoogoo and Haircut One
Hundred. Ska-boys wore green flight jackets or striped boater blazers
covered with Madness, The Selector and The Specials badges, with
burgundy Sta-Pres trousers, dark glasses, white socks and two-tone
shoes and were friendly with the Mods, though thought themselves
better-dressed. Various non-descript groups sat around together in
'sensible' brown clothes and bowl-cuts. They played chess in
corners.

And the girls? They were all the same to us. They wore normal, girly
clothes and, for the most part, didn't belong to music cliques like us.
Some of them were prettier than others and some, like Claire MacLeod,
were so beautiful that nobody stood 'any chance of a dance' with
them.

When we came back in, we were drunk and laughing. We squeezed past
Plod, holding our breaths, and launched into a medley of wild tunes
such as "You Really Got Me," "I Love Rock 'n' Roll," "All night Long,"
"The Ace of Spades" and "Smoke on the Water," during which I dragged
the needle deeply across the grooves twice and kicked out the power
plug three times due to careless headbanging and foot-tapping. The
medley included a verse and the chorus of each song. The tough guys
down there in the corner, slouching on chairs, they were our lot. The
headbangers. I was one of them, but I was up on the stage, so thought I
had better impress.

The Headbangers' Ball only lasted a short while until a prefect passed
the signal to us that Felix had deemed the Heavy Metal part of the
evening over. I reacted quick, raising a cheer from the Punks and the
Rockers by managing to play a full quarter of "I Fought The Law,"by The
Clash before a janitor pulled the plug, warning me to "play nice
songs." The irony of it all was lost on me, the chorus being, "I fought
the law but the law won." I span The Who: "The Kids Are Alright" to the
delight of the Mods. I had assured their respect and could now safely
sit with them at the tuck shop and expect no trouble, despite the fact
I was a rocker. I stared at them as the record clicked and clicked. It
had finished and people were beginning to shout. My co-DJ was tying his
laces. We had forgotten to line up the next record.

The policeman, summoning all his powers of deduction, eventually
concluded that we were drunk as lords and took over the situation. He
began playing songs from the top forty list in Smash Hits, omitting
"Relax" and anything by Adam and the Ants, who were very big news then,
though few at school would admit to liking them. The change of DJ
pleased the Posers no end, their favourite groups outnumbering the
others in the charts as usual.

Felix prowled, breaking up snogging couples. "No petting!" he would
growl, gripping the boy roughly by the arm, making him squeal. He
neglected to grip the arms of the more developed boys, preferring
instead to invite them to separate from the girls. Luckily for him, the
toughest of the tough boys had nothing to do with such things as
girls.

They dimmed the lights a little for the last few songs, just to be nice
to us, to make us remember how reasonable they had been. Frankie Goes
to Hollywood with "The Power of Love." I watched as couples danced as
closely as Felix would permit, only hands touching.

I looked on sadly, the effects of the drink wearing off and leaving me
unsettled, as one of the Posers danced with Claire MacLeod. However, my
flagging spirits were lifted as I remembered the last of the stashed
bottles of Stout. Outside, I drank it quickly, burped and walked
purposefully towards the open fire doors, a certain, cool leaning in my
gait. Like John Wayne.

I marched in confidently, meaning to grab the nearest girl and dance
her like she'd never been danced before. "True," by Spandau Ballet was
just ending as the hall lights came on.

The foyer was already crowded with parents.