Zeb filled one last breath with sweet smoke then dropped the joint’s ragged remains onto the London pavement. He looked down at his favourite trainers (Adidas, dark blue suede, white stripes, simple, irresistible) and used the right one to squeeze out the tiny fire. His concentration stayed with the shoe and he wondered lazily how many dog ends that foot had extinguished over the past fourteen years. “Didn’t fancy the roach then?” “Not that desperate. I could put it in a matchbox for you though.” “You keep your matchbox mate. You might want to stick your talent in there.” The two friends sniggered and made twinkly-eyed gurns at each other. Zeb was one friend, Des the other. They had known each other for five years and their senses of humour were pretty well entwined. “Looks like the place then.” “That sign a bit of a giveaway?” Des shrugged towards a lonely A3 colour poster in the window that read ‘ProDJ Dance Music Awards’. It looked out of place on such a grand building. It was just stuck up there with blue tack. “Oh right.” “Got your contacts in have you Zeb?” Zeb squinted up at the hazy city sky. His pupils were small, his irises pink, his eyelids heavy. He lowered his gaze and could make out the tops of unnecessary office blocks and overcrowded hotels. He saw the upper floors of tourist shops where dodgy schools of English hid stashed in cramped and unsafe conditions. He wasn’t a Londoner but he’d visited enough times. He knew the general lie of the land. “I think I put them in. Maybe I forgot.” Des laughed at his friend’s useless memory and rubbish eyesight. Zeb could chat a girl up one night and totally not recognise her the next. “But you’ve got the invites right?” Zeb came back to eye level. “You what? I thought you had them.” Des grinned. “I have. Just wanted to wind you up.” “Wanker. You’ll make someone a lovely wife one day.” “You’ve asked me before mate. The answer’s still ‘no’.” “Stop, please. My sides are frigging killing me.” “Let’s go in then and stop pissing around out here.” Despite being 27 (Zeb) and 25 (Des) and both irregular visitors to the capital for bad parties and disastrous club adventures, neither of them had ever visited this kind of central London hotel before. It had a footman, automatic doors and, from what they could see through the smoked glass, a huge shiny reception counter run by an assortment of lovely ladies. The lads lifted their shoulders, passed through the magic doors and approached the counter as confidently as they could, considering the state of their legs (wobbly) and their heads (tired). The five hour coach trip had given them cramp and the spliff-heavy walk from Victoria had worn them out. Des had looked at an A-Z and said it wasn’t that far from the station to the hotel (Londoners were just wimps who didn’t know what their legs were for) so they’d followed a very rough route and had wandered about through green parks full of daydreaming office workers and pigeons with attitude. It didn’t help that Des had brought a huge bag of records so they had to keep stopping to take turns and shift positions. Still, dedicated and a little lopsided, they’d passed shops, giant houses and plenty of red buses. They had even found the right place and arrived on time. With all the roads and hotels that existed in London town this was something of a minor miracle. “Good Afternoon. Welcome to Royalty Hotels, Park Lane. Can I help you?” Des smiled, his bag of records resting on his feet. Receptionist number one was adorable and this was good news because number two was busy with a fax machine and number three way too old for him up close. He noted number one’s shiny eyes and clean bouncy hair. Maybe he was in love. “We’re here for the… conference.” “The Dance Music Awards?” “Yeh. We’ve got invites.” “I don’t need to see them. You just need to sign in,” the girl whose badge said Julie Carmichael pointed at a register, “and then follow the signs to the Princess Michael banqueting suite.” “Oh.” Des wanted to say something to impress this perky looking blond in the navy blue suit and shiny cream blouse but he couldn’t find a suitable offering. Why did employers make their staff wear such horrible uniforms – it was really off-putting. Julie had on the kind of thing his Mum might wear to a Christening. How could he talk normally to an outfit like that? “Right.” “DJs are you?” “I am. He’s a journalist.” Julie looked at the mate’s baggy jeans, washed-out sweatshirt and thin jacket. Is that what journalists looked like then – scruffy and underfed? Zeb filled in their details and Julie checked them over. She saw they were from up north, from a place she’d been to a couple of times to visit a friend at college. She decided to be vague about details. “I think I went there once,” she pointed at the register and Zeb’s schoolboy handwriting, “went clubbing too. It’s great isn’t it? Really friendly?” “It can be. Where did you go?” Julie flashed her workaday smile. She couldn’t decide whether she found either of them attractive or not. Probably not. “Can’t remember the name of the place. Big dancefloor, big queue outside. Clubs all look the same really don’t they?” You’re pretty, thought Des, but you’re a bit daft. Clubs do not all look the same, and when you’ve spent as much time in them as I have you know that for sure. Each club has its own character, its own blips in the sound system, its own plumbing difficulties when full to capacity and beyond. Girls like this brought clubs to life by dancing off the week’s woes in clingy dresses and silly shoes but they rarely understood how a club worked, what made it tick and why. That was one reason why Des couldn’t find his perfect woman. Who would ever share his strange religious beliefs – his love of music (the God) and his search for the holy grail (a club that would recognise him as the greatest DJ that ever lived, allow him to develop his potential and give him a 10 year long Saturday night residency)? No girl he’d met yet, that was for sure. Des gave Julie Carmichael an end-of-conversation nod but then remembered his bag. He loved every tune in there but he didn’t want to look like a prize pillock – turning up to a thing like this looking like he expected to play. He reintroduced his friendlier face. “Got anywhere safe you can stash these for me?” Julie was business-like – her tone helpful but impersonal. “Of course. You just need to fill in a form. In fact I can do that for you - you just sign here.” “Thanks. That’s great. Ta.” “No problem. Just bring your bag to the side of the desk.” Julie walked along behind the counter and waited for Des to catch her up. Des was pleased that through the gap between the desk and the wall he could get a better look at her body in full. She had nice legs, a cute arse, but today, he reminded himself, he had other priorities. She handed him a ticket stub for the bag and he nodded again then turned to the signs in the foyer that pointed to various destinations within the hotel. “Thanks,” he said, back to casual, and nudged Zeb on. “We’d better get in and see who’s arrived then.” Julie displayed another regulation customer greeting/departing expression. They were quite a sweet pair, she thought, and less flash than a lot of the others who’d turned up so far. They didn’t have the trademark arrogance that she had already witnessed a few times this afternoon (although the black guy - Des Johnson it said next to ‘DJ’ - was trying his best to go that way). They just looked like very ordinary blokes – shuffly, a bit flirty, maybe a little stoned. The white guy especially, his eyes were a mess. The white guy, who was Zeb, directed his fuzzy gaze at the hotel signs. “Look at this Des, three restaurants.” “I can read. Come on, it’s down this way.” Des led his easily-impressed friend down a corridor to the right and tried not to look too excited himself. He was keen to get in and see what big names had turned up but he didn’t want to be too obvious about it. Maybe today he’d make some powerful new friends, meet some people of influence and importance, get a job in a London club or a remix or something. The carpet they walked on was crimson red with little yellow crowns all over it. The walls they passed were heavy cream broken up by large bland paintings and notices about fire alarms. Music jangled irritatingly in the background but they couldn’t quite make out what it was. It could be Texas, Simply Red, The Beautiful sodding South. The first door they came to said ‘Administration’, the next ‘Television Lounge’. There was a sign pointing off to the left that said ‘Health Club’. “Shall we go for a dip then? Have a work out?” “Yeh, ‘cos you’re so sporty Zeb. Always in the gym at home.” “I might go. If there was a good place near me.” “If it had lots of sofas for you to lie on and TVs for you to stare at.” “Ha ha. ‘Cos I’m the only lazy git out of the two of us. Right.” “I’m not lazy. I meditate.” “Whatever. Hey, that receptionist was quite luscious wasn’t she?” “She was OK. Bit dumb blonde.” “You’re just picky. What’s so bad about being dumb?” “I dunno. Call me old-fashioned but I like to have a decent conversation with a girl now and then.” Zeb mimicked his friend’s expression. “A conversation? What do you want to do that for?” Des made another face back. They’d reached a closed double door with a board outside that read ‘Royalty Hotels welcomes’ and then in wobbly stuck-on gold plastic letters ‘the Pro DJ Dance Music Awards’. They could hear the thud of music from inside the room – something a little louder and faster than the middle-of-the-corridor muzak. “Here we are then.” “Yup.” Neither friend would admit it but they were both a little nervous. They stood still for a moment and concentrated on breathing - in out, in out, funny how you do it all the time and hardly notice. They did have invitations (nice thick card with glossy logos, their names biroed in) but they knew full well that they had got them under somewhat false pretences. Zeb was a journalist but he wrote for a tiny, insignificant local paper that had a readership of about fifteen people (and none of them under the age of thirty-five). He was good at buttering up record companies and promotions people but they may as well have set fire to everything they sent him because no one had ever bought anything or gone anywhere because of a written recommendation by Zeb Travis (real name John Travis, nickname courtesy of bouncy dancing style in younger days). He sold a lot of the stuff he was sent to pay the bills for his bachelor flat (bedsit) and he’d got the invites from one of his regular contacts (Judi at Nice’n’Groovy, record promotions and one-off related events). She believed he was spreading the word about today’s function far and wide. So far he had told a couple of friends, some girls in a bar and the Hell’s Angel in training who lived upstairs and had come down to complain about the noise last Sunday. As for Des Lovell (who had successfully shaken off the nickname Lovellman, generally sung to the tune of Shabba Ranks) – he was a DJ, he did own records and he was on quite a few mailing lists for upfront DJ promotional type vinyl (hence the invite). Des’ current problem however was that he rarely played music to more than five people at a time. His career had started well with pirate radio and some good spots at bars and parties but it had never made that jump to the next level and to make matters worse last Xmas the station owner had decided to move into a more legal and profitable business (catering – would you believe it?) and now Des had lost his radio show and thus his main selling point. All he had left was a part-time job in a record store and lots of wannabe promoters (white boy students with too much pocket money usually) putting him on at club nights that never lasted more than a couple of nights or attracted more than a couple of punters. It made him really miserable if he thought about it. And he still lived at home. He’d moved out once (twice if you counted the two weeks he’d lived with terrifying Teresa) but he’d had to come back. No money, no independence, no peace from his little sister Sonya. She was probably in his room right now – playing his records and jumping on his sad, single bed. Des and Zeb stood and stood and then realised it was time to make that move. They looked like prats waiting outside and there was a loud group of what sounded dangerously like London garage MCs coming down the corridor behind them. Zeb looked further up the other way and saw an open set of doors with some pot plants outside. His eyesight wasn’t that bad – he could clearly make out the word ‘bar’. “Fancy a quick drink before we go in?” He nodded his cropped head up towards the greenery. “Yeh,” Des really did and started to move northwards. “Quick before we get ayanappered in the rush…” The bar had been decorated according to the international rules of hotel bar interior design. The ceiling was low - as were the lights and the chairs and the tables. The room was dark and smoky and intentionally depressing. The music was different again and this time it sounded like Jamiroquai. Was it? Yes, it definitely was. There were a couple of hulking figures at the bar in denim and camouflage, their backs to the door, and a group of smarter women in the corner, four of them, all smoking and drinking wine. Zeb ordered drinks from a youthful spotty barman with greased back black hair whilst Des tried to sneak a look at the faces of the barflies to see if they were anyone he recognised. They might be techno producers or A & R men from a major label. They were smoking and drinking short brown drinks (Jack Daniels? Irish whisky?) and they were grumbling to each other like a pair of teachers in a staffroom. Des heard one of them (shaven head) say to the other (longer hair) something about ‘fucking knobheads at the agency.’ They were probably DJs then – maybe they’d had a booking for some huge festival abroad messed up, got the wrong flight details or something. Zeb got himself his usual tipple – vodka and coke. He hated the taste of beer and though his drink had gone through a dodgy ‘you’re drinking what you big poof?’ phase it seemed to have come back into fashion again. Now it was almost cool to drink something different from all the other guys in the room – to have a bit of a feminine side to your taste buds. Des, however, was having none of it. Des drank beer (lager, that is) and preferred his own brand. If possible. If you’ve got it. Thanks. Ta very much. The hotel had the right brand (Miller – bottled) so the two particular Northerners took their drinks over to one of the arrangements of glass tables and uncomfortable-looking cane chairs. Since they’d met five years before at a dodgy party full of drunken and sexually-frustrated sixth form boys Des and Zeb had spent many days and nights in each other’s company. They both liked drinking, smoking, talking and listening to music. When they were out and about they liked to compete with each other at spotting music (artist, track, label, year, number of mixes…) and today was no different. Jamiroquai had made way for something with a female vocal that it took a moment for them to get. Brand New Heavies, new vocalist, that’s who it was. Track from last year. Des got it first and Zeb made a face. He liked to play but he hated to lose. “Those drinks weren’t cheap.” “Well, they wouldn’t be. Not on Park Lane. We’re in dark blue Monopoly territory now.” “Wouldn’t know mate. We had the poor Yorkshire bastards version. Dark blue was that chip shop that didn’t charge you extra f’t fag ash.” “Please. Not the professional Northern jokes. Not here.” Zeb took cigarettes out of his jacket pocket and offered them to Des. His mate obviously needed to lighten up. He’d been nervy and weird all day. “I know you want to make a good impression Des but you shouldn’t worry so much. We might meet someone here – we might not. There’s no point getting worked up about it.” “I’m not worked up.” “Yes, you are. Now go and ask one of those girls for a light. See who they are while you’re at it.” Des liked it when Zeb bossed him about and took control of their situation. It didn’t happen often but when it did it felt great and he felt relieved not to be in charge, not to be responsible for his own actions. He dutifully took the cig and headed over to the corner table. The women didn’t look up – they were deep in girly chit chat. “’Scuse me. Anyone got a light?” “Yeh, here you are mate.” The girl nearest to Des picked a pink plastic lighter off the table and handed it to him. She had long dark hair, freckles and wore combats and tight t shirt over a sporty, slim body. She seemed friendly enough and her eyes were sparkling so Des ventured further into conversation. “You here for the awards then?” “Yeh. You?” “Yeh.” Des quickly noticed he hadn’t prepared a line of questioning. “We’ve just got here – haven’t been in yet. How’s it going?” He felt like some crap TV journalist hanging around the entrance to the Oscars and asking Catharine Zeta Jones about her babysitting arrangements. He had felt more comfortable in his life. “It’s OK. Same as usual really.” “Yeh.” Des wondered what that meant. Was that good or bad? Were you meant to act cool and think it was all naff? Bad news if you were because acting cool had never been Des’ strong point. He wondered if he should get back to Zeb quickly before he made some huge gaff. “Where you from then?” Thank God, dark hair and freckles was taking pity on him and returning serve. He answered her question quickly. Too quickly maybe. “Right.” She perked up and threw a cheeky smile up at him. “There’s a few coming down from there. Mick from Truth is coming…and full posse.” Des wanted to smile back at freckles but couldn’t manage it. Mick from Truth was not a set of sounds Des ever liked to hear mainly because he had once told Mick (one of the city’s main club promoters) what an arse the bloke was and how his night should be called Bullshit because that would suit it better. Des hadn’t even been banned or kicked out. He wasn’t important enough to get a reaction and that was what hurt him more than anything. He was just another scruffy get wanting something. He wasn’t a smugged up member of the hometown clubbing elite. He never had been and probably never would be. “I don’t know Mick really. I’m more from the pirate radio, underground side of things.” Now who’s in the bullshit market? Des didn’t like double standards but kept to them anyway. He dragged on his cigarette. He wanted to change the subject but couldn’t think how. “Shame. He’s a right laugh. You know Mick don’t you Jeri?” “Too right. He’s a darlin’. Always looks after me when I play up there.” Jeri? Jeri? That rang a big cockney Bow bell. Was that Jeri Lane the DJ? Jeri Lane who co-ran an agency that got all the best known DJs practically all their work in the UK? Des looked over at the woman in question and saw that the trademark wavy red hair was up in a concoction on her head but that it was definitely all there. She didn’t look much like her photos - all he could see was a lot of creamy make-up covering a surprisingly old and haggard face. She was thin with huge staring eyes and was dressed, for some reason, in a smart beige suit. He never would have guessed that was Jeri Lane. “You play up our way quite a lot don’t you?” “Yeh, it’s so friendly up there.” More like you get paid loads to play any old crap and mix badly. “It can be.” “So who’s your friend?” The freckled girl, whose name was Kerry, liked the look of crumpled Zeb. She always fell for lost causes - useless boys who couldn’t look after their own money, hold down a job or get to the dole office on time. It was a habit she was trying to break but so far progress was slow. “That’s Zeb. Zeb Travis. He’s a journalist, local…you know.” “Oh, I’ve spoken to him on the phone,” freckled Kerry grinned from multi-pierced ear to multi-pierced ear, “he always makes me laugh. He does really good impressions. Jeri, you should hear his Eminem, it’s wicked.” Jeri looked ready to move on and finished her glass of wine in one determined slurp. “Call him over. Call him over. Zeb hi, it’s Kerry. Kerry Smith from Noise Aloud. Hi!” Des was pleased to see that Kerry’s cool didn’t run very deep. He was relieved too that Zeb had made a good impression on at least one of these Southern girls. He’d been getting nowhere. Zeb picked up what was left of his drink and scuttled over to join them. He was glad to move – a group of huge gay men from one of London’s fiercest clubs had arrived and set up camp at the table next to him. He had nothing against huge gay men – he just felt like a div sat there on his own whilst they talked (loudly) about hard house (seriously) and hard cocks (humorously). They were drinking great jugs of martini and making elaborate hand gestures – it was difficult not to stare. “I wouldn’t have guessed who you were.” Kerry was not scared of being obvious – she threw Zeb a big I’m-yours-already drool. “No, I know. I’m loads better looking than you expected.” Kerry giggled and giggled and giggled. “See. I told you he was funny.” Jeri Lane stood up to go and the other two in the group quickly downed glasses and upped cigs, lighters and bags. They were both blonde, pert-nosed, slim and dressed in black. Jeri had made no sign that they were to follow her – it just seemed taken for granted. “Must go the powder room – get myself ready for the long night ahead.” Jeri rubbed her own turned-up nose which was obviously in need of its regular cocaine application. “Great to meet you. What was your name again?” “I never said. It’s Des. Des Lovell. I’ve done some deep house tracks, under the name D.L.P. I’m a DJ too.” “Yeh. Wicked. You should send a tape to the agency. And a list of what you’ve done. “ “Actually, I brought some tapes with me. Thought they might...” Jeri held up a tanned, manicured hand. “Don’t give it to me now, babe. Got no bag with me, I’ll just lose it. Send it to Fast Lane. One of the girls will sort you out.” Jeri and co disappeared off into the corridor before Des could so much as feel his embarrassment. His hand was still resting on the tapes in his jacket pocket (5 copies – all done with special labels, in colour). He couldn’t decide if he was Kevin or Perry or just Des Lovell, prize dickhead who takes his stupid homemade cassettes with him everywhere. Jeri Lane had looked bored, vacant, keen to get off and talk to someone more important and Des had totally failed to make the most of that moment. He’d send a tape but knew he’d most likely never get the call that mattered. He could call them of course but sometimes that could just make the rejection more definitive. ‘Where do you play then?’ they’d say over and over again, their yawns and nail files clearly audible, all those miles away. ‘Call us back in a couple of months – we might have something for you then…’ Zeb was doing much better already. That girl from the record label was eating out of his unwashed hand and she didn’t care whether he had any influence over the music-buying public or not – she just wanted to jump his skinny bones. The label she worked for wasn’t bad either. They did breakbeat stuff, all that student music that Des quite liked but found a bit cut and paste without a point to it. Zeb loved it – said Des needed to get out more and stop looking for the deeper side of everything. “So do you know Simon Matthews too then? He’s from up your way isn’t he?” Des watched his friend’s face react to Kerry’s innocent question. If there was one thing liable to shake Zeb from his customary chilled mood it was the mention of his most hated rival – Simon ‘the dustbin’ Matthews. Matthews was the trendiest journalist north of his own ego and Zeb hated every cell of his designer skatewear-smothered body. Zeb seemed prepared – he didn’t flinch or gag or make any manic wanking gestures. He kept his face in neutral and looked deep into Kerry’s eyes. “I’ve met him, yeh.” “He’s a right laugh, isn’t he? That magazine of his is excellent.” Zeb kept to the unphased look even though Des knew he must be losing it inside and shrieking ‘Excellent! Excellent! That guy and his precious ego trip on paper represent everything that is wrong with world today. And I wrote a piece for him last year and he never even gave me a ‘thanks to’. Tosser.’ “What’s it called again?” “’Casualty’.” “Yeh, that’s it. Wicked.” Des thought it might be best to distract his friend from this topic so he took drinks orders and made for the bar. He’d drained his own beer without even noticing and as he crossed the room he calculated how many more drinks he could afford to buy with the cash he’d brought. Not many, he decided, not at these prices anyway. They’d brought limited supplies of drugs for the weekend (draw, some speed, a few Es, some acid for Zeb) and Zeb had a quarter bottle of vodka about his scrawny person somewhere. Carrying around crates of beer, however, had seemed a bit ridiculous and cheapskate. Even for them. From the bar Des saw that Zeb must have got the subject changed because he and Kerry were laughing and getting closer and closer to each other. Their cane chairs were already wedged together but now they were leaning out of them, craning their necks to get a better look at each other, a better sniff at each other’s bodily odours. Des made his usual order and added a pint of Stella for Kerry (off the wine now the posh birds have gone eh?). Then he noticed that the bar’s occupants had changed and that instead of the two complaining urban warriors the summery stools were now filled with bodies that even he managed to recognise straightaway. One was Tom Piper (a big star of the banging tunes variety, complete with his own show on national radio). The other was a DJ on the same station – Gordon Taylor. He was less of a club regular - more of an old guy who’d just hung in there, kept his head down and changed his preferences and catchphrases with the times. Tom Piper was attacking a fruity drink with a plastic cocktail stirrer and mouthing off. Gordon Taylor nursed a long clear glass of something with ice and lemon and threw in the odd bored question. “So the aga is in and we’re happy with it but the dishwasher is absolutely fucking useless.” “Can’t you get hold of the plumber?” “No fucking way. He’s off in the south of Spain, feet up, spending my money on sodding sangria. I tell you GT, I’m well fucked off.” “So what will you do?” “I don’t fucking know. I’m getting it in the neck from Annabel and I tell you I’m sick as a dog of the whole thing.” Yeh, me too, thought Gordon Taylor as he finished his drink. He raised his empty glass at Piper. “Another juice, mate?” “No. I’d better get moving. I could do without this crap today. I could be at home now – sorting the mess out there. I don’t need to be hanging around here waiting for some crappy magazine to tell me I’m the most popular DJ in the country. I’ve got meetings coming out of my arse and a school summer fair to get to before chucking out time. The missus’ll go crazy if I don’t make that one.” Gordon had heard the ‘I’m so in demand everywhere’ line just a few thousand times before but gritted his grey teeth and looked up for the barman. To his annoyance the barman was not stood waiting for his next signal. He had the nerve to be busy - dealing with a plain-looking black guy a few stools along. The guy was rummaging through his pockets – didn’t seem to have enough cash. Gordon was thirsty and needed another drink to get through this communication with Piper without pushing him off his perch. He hoped that barman would be up here sharpish. “Need some change, mate?” Gordon wasn’t generous but desperate for another gin. He couldn’t bear to sit waiting and watching this guy look for money he so obviously didn’t have. “No, thanks. My mate’s just over there. I’ll be back in a minute.” “No, please. We’re in a rush. Just put it on my tab.” Gordon gestured to the barman with the confident air of a man who’d gestured to many barmen about many tabs over the years. “And a refill over here when you’re ready.” Des didn’t know what to do next. He knew if he made a fuss about paying his own way the situation could get more awkward but he didn’t know whether it would be more acceptable in this position to thank Taylor a lot or a little or not thank him at all. Des’ mother had brought him up to be very polite and well-mannered and even after years of trying he still found all this clubland behaviour very difficult to follow. “Cheers mate,” he had a go at the laid-back laddiness that always felt so false, “I owe you one.” Gordon Taylor watched lovingly as the barman poured him another double gin and tonic. It was a strange drink for a man in his youthful style-conscious profession but he loved it and he wouldn’t give it up for anyone. “Yeh, whatever. It’s the licence payers you want to thank really. They’re the ones keeping us in brain-enhancing beverages.” Des wondered if he should laugh. Was that a joke? It wasn’t very funny. Tom Piper realised he was talking to himself and turned to see who had removed Gordon’s attention from his tales of darkest kitchen trauma. It was no one he recognised - looked like some bedroom music producer with his dark, label-less clothes and his complete lack of gold teeth or eye catching hair sculpture . You never knew though – sometimes those boring-looking guys could come up with the goods and create, from nowhere, the summer’s big tune. They could be that heaven-sent mixture of talented musician and clueless nobody. You could make some serious money out of them if you played it right. “Gordon, mate, you boring this geezer with your war stories?” That’s right, Gordon gritted harder, ‘cos I’m all of three years older than you, tosser. “Just being friendly.” Des didn’t know where to look. He wanted to pick the drinks up and run but was scared of spilling Stella over someone’s expensive street-footwear. He tried to catch Zeb’s eye but there was no chance of that blind twat seeing his predicament and rushing to his aid. By the look on his face Zeb was performing for Kerry– doing his ‘hip hop gangster at the supermarket’ sketch or something. ‘I said Switch bitch’ etcetera, etcetera… “Much appreciated,” Des mumbled quietly, feeling more and more like a second class citizen. He’d listened to both of these two DJs when he was much younger but wasn’t keen on hanging around with either of them. They were the establishment – the embodiment of that bland, white, popular DJ who plays the music of the moment without truly caring what it is. At the moment it was mainly the hard banging twiddly stuff – in fact it seemed to have been that for years now. It was these supposed apostles of dance who kept things so cheesy, so all about the CD box set with their face on it. Other guys might make it in the clubs but these old geezers had the best seats in the house - the real influence and incomes to go with it. They weren’t giving that up for anyone. Des knew that one day when he’d written the killer riff and nailed the best bass line, that guys like these would have to play his tunes but that didn’t mean he ever had to like them as people. It didn’t mean he had to feel like he owed them something. Gordon decided he’d rather talk to this ordinary bloke than hear more Piperisms so he turned to Des and bullied him back into conversation. The guy looked OK, he thought, innocent, nervous, a fish out of water. “So, you here for the beer?” Gordon could still produce a natural smile when he tried hard enough. Des looked to Zeb but he was still caught up with captivating Kerry. “We’re down for the weekend. Thought we’d call in. Check the place out.” Des cringed at the sound of his own voice - did he really say ‘check it out’? “Right. Yeh. Going somewhere good tonight?” “Just playing at a party. Underground thing, you know.” This was stretching things a few miles as the party would only be underground in the sense that it would probably be in a basement. Apart from that it would be a regulation pissed up, slightly druggy crap party where 15 guys would fight over the DJ slots (‘sorry mate, I’ve just come on, come back in a couple of hours’). Meanwhile 3 people would dance for England while everyone else talked bollocks on the stairs or sat on the dirty mismatched kitchen units swinging their legs and playing drinking games. “Cool. They were always my favourite gigs. No pressure, no trainspotters – just love of the music.” “Yeh.” Des thought it unlikely that Gordon Taylor had ever played at an underground party. He’d been famous forever and before that, no doubt, he’d been in training to be famous at some local radio station, hospital or department store. Tom Piper was getting fed up of waiting for Taylor (the old faker) to turn round and pay him some attention. Then a mobile phone rang loudly to the tune of ‘Return of the Mack’. “Oh, that’s me,” drawled Piper loudly with affected annoyance, “no peace for the frigging wicked.” He picked his phone off the bar and shrugged theatrically. “Looks like it’s my label manager. Wonder what’s frigging wrong now.” Gordon Taylor stubbornly kept his eyes on Des despite the performance to his right. “So where’s your party? You doing the old warehouse sketch? Film studio? Squatting an office building?” More like dirty student house where a girl Zeb knows vaguely is having her twenty first, thought Des, but decided not to share that information. “I’m not sure. I don’t really know London. My mate’s got the details.” “Cool. Wicked. You’ll just turn up and play.” Well, I’ll get wasted, try and cop off, eat half a leftover pizza and then play out of my tree at about 5.30 in the morning. “Yeh, something like that.” “Sounds excellent. I’m playing at a big glitzy place up West tonight. It’ll be awful. Loads of tourists. Not a true head in sight.” A head? Des wanted to laugh but restrained himself. This guy would be saying he was down with the brothers next. He decided it was time to try a different conversation. “So you up for an award? Presenting one or something?” “Oh, I won’t win anything,” Taylor picked the lemon out of his new drink and started pulling it to pieces with his teeth. “Never been that kind of DJ. I’m just here to meet up with a few people.” The sight of Taylor brutalising the lemon slice was quite stomach-turning. The flesh stuck in his ugly teeth and the juice oozed down the corner of his mouth. Des found himself drawn to stare no matter how gross it was. In the background he could see Zeb beckoning him over. Kerry must have gone to the ladies or something. “I’d better get these drinks over,” Des made to set off. “Nice to meet you and thanks again. If you ever…” Des didn’t have a clue what to say next. He hoped to walk away and avoid finishing the thought but in the blink of a red eye Taylor was off his seat and helping Des over with his drinks. “Love to join you. Piper’s busy on the phone as ever. It’d be nice to hang with some real music lovers.” Des knew he was stuck with this one. He couldn’t tell Taylor to get lost because he’d bought them the stupid drinks. He couldn’t run – nowhere to hide. He just had to stretch his mouth into a friendly smile and keep on moving. Zeb might be pleased – Taylor was a national institution. He might, on the other hand, think his old mukka had completely lost the plot. Tom Piper, seeing his sidekick disappearing into the distance, pulled his phone from his face and called after him, “I’ve got to head off straightaway GT, got a crisis in the office. Later, man.” Taylor turned slowly. “OK, Piper. See you.” A strained and sweaty superstar DJ went back to his call. “Yeh, on my way, see you in thirty,” he blurted into the tiny phone then got to his feet and grabbed a dainty but crammed filofax from the bar. The room was busier now with several tables of assorted dance music types and Piper looked around for more people to see him make an exit. No one was paying any attention – they were all fully engaged in heated debates, diary consultations or heavy drinking. Piper reverted to his phone for company and fiddled with it as he left room. Maybe he was checking for hugely important messages from abroad – what would any of these losers know? Zeb was having a great day. He’d already seen quite a few people he’d heard of, he’d hooked up with Kerry who was cute and cool and keen and he’d done nothing all day but smoke and drink with much more to come. Fantastic, he thought as he watched his ever-anxious best mate come back across the bar. This is what life is meant to be like – no work, no worries, just play, play, play. But who was that with Des? He looked familiar. Was it someone off the telly? Someone they’d met in a club somewhere? Des reached his mate and tried to display his best help-me-get-rid-of-this-embarrassment expression. Zeb noticed Des was contorting his face about something but couldn’t work out what. Maybe the guy was someone really important and Des was saying ‘watch your mouth, don’t drop us in it.’ As if he would? I can be the soul of discretion, Zeb thought, not like you, you cheeky git. Des started to introduce the older man to his friend but before he’d got his first word out Taylor thrust out his big man’s hand and reached for Zeb’s thinner, weedier, cigarette-holding version. Zeb swapped hands with his cig and gave in to the grip. “Gordon Taylor, pleased to meet you, man. Hear you’re down for a weekend of caning it?” That’s who he was – that Granddad off the radio, used to do a chart show but was now one of the never-ending team of dance DJs on national radio. Zeb thought he’d recognised the other guy at the bar and now it made sense – that must have been Tom Piper. Piper was a complete arsewipe but popular, hugely popular. Zeb wouldn’t mind chatting with him a while – maybe getting some job writing press releases for his label or something. “Alright, mate. I’m Zeb Travis, write music reviews and stuff, regional press, mostly.” “Yeh, wicked. Keepin’ it local,” Taylor cackled at his own comment and sat down at the table. Zeb laughed too – this guy didn’t seem too bad and he did know Piper, he might wangle himself an introduction. Des sat down too but he wasn’t happy. The table was still crowded with Jeri Lane’s leftovers and fag ends and the last thing Des wanted to do was settle in for an afternoon of quips with Taylor & Travis. They could sit around being stupid at home anytime – what he wanted to do today was make some good contacts and meet some people who mattered, some people he respected who made good music or, at least, distributed it to the faithful. There must be better people to talk to than this – there just must. “So when shall we move next door?” he asked, trying to seem relaxed. “Oh, mate,” Taylor fondled his glass and leaned back in his chair, “there’s no rush to get in there, these things are always really boring. You just listen to lots of geezers pretending to perform live and then clap like seals every time they hand an award out for best record sleeve or most creative use of a bikini in a video or whatever. You can’t hear anything the compere says for all the record company tarts chatting so much and that’s a relief most of the time. Not sure who’s doing it this year actually.” This last line was a stinking lie. Taylor knew full well who was master of ceremonies today – it was Mikey Moore, a DJ from a London dance music radio station who was not only younger, trendier and better looking than Taylor himself but who also shared a flat in a select city location with one Amber Solaire, Taylor’s last significant other. “But there’s some good bands on too aren’t there?” Des was sure he’d read that in ‘ProDJ’ only the week before. “They might be in the building but they won’t be going on stage,” Taylor gulped more clear liquid and wished he’d bothered to get another drink before moving so far away from the bar. “I say ‘stage’ – we’re not exactly talking Glastonbury here…most people come here to lig and drink and get out of their faces. You’ll be amazed how open they all are in there – coke all over the tables, no one eating anything, plates just sitting there till they get cleared away.” Des was kind of hungry and wondered what the food might be. Would it be too uncool to go in, grab some and eat it in the corridor as quick as he could? Undoubtedly. This would be the Mount Everest of uncool club behaviour. Don’t look desperate, don’t look hungry, keep your poverty close to your chest. Zeb, on the other hand, fancied a bit of free coke. He wasn’t massively into the drug but if it was there and going begging…well, it would be rude just to say no. “Doesn’t sound so bad to me,” Zeb grinned, “I could force myself to partake, just for the common good.” “Don’t even joke about it,” Taylor’s face tightened, his eyes froze and his left cheek twitched, “ruined my life that stuff – twice! Why do you think I’m still in the same job, not moved on to some over-paid poncey style consultancy or retired in the sun? I’ve got debts that’s why – huge debts, more alimony than you could swim in and maintenance for kids I hardly ever see.” Des and Zeb didn’t know where to look. They didn’t want to see each other’s faces – they might burst out laughing – but they couldn’t eyeball Taylor either. He was so angry, sounded so bitter. Was he joking, waiting for them to laugh? It was like being told off by your Dad but as neither friend saw much of their male parent they were not sure how to react. Zeb’s Dad had been real trouble and was long gone, his Mum had remarried and moved on too. Des’ Dad lived round the corner and was a sound enough bloke but he wasn’t much of a Dad presence-wise. He spent most of his time with friends drinking, smoking, talking and listening to music. Both friends tried to remember if there was some story about Taylor and a major drug habit. Maybe there had been something but they didn’t read the tabloids enough to know for sure. They usually stuck with music magazines and books about music and watched a lot of late night imported TV shows. “Sorry, lads, don’t know where that came from.” Taylor’s eye muscles relaxed a little and his twitch mellowed too. “They just make me mad events like this – everyone arselicking with one hand and backstabbing with the other.” Nice way with words, flashed through Zeb’s mind, can see why you get paid to talk for a living Mr Taylor. “But I’ve no complaints really. I made some mistakes and I’m paying for them. What else can you do?” Zeb decided to play the celebrity journalist for a minute. “I’d never heard about…you and drugs or anything.” “No? You must be the only one in the country who hasn’t. It was all private, personal stuff but it didn’t stay that way…I don’t why I’m even talking about now. It’s my birthday next week and I’m hitting forty five. Maybe that’s what it is. Maybe I’m starting to feel too old for all this.” Zeb wondered if he should take notes, pick a new angle and then sell the story to the papers. He’d never done anything like that before but maybe only because he’d never had the chance. “Sounds like you need to talk about it though.” Oh, please. Des was getting tired of the conversation and fed up with Taylor. Not another sad old git moaning how drugs and women had ruined his life. You chose all that, didn’t you, he shouted inside, you thought it was clever to begin with, being the big mouth DJ, taking the huge wads of other people’s money? “I suppose I do. There’s just so many people here that have meant something to me in the past. Amber’s here with the… new man,” Taylor couldn’t bear to say his name, “and she’s looking so great, wearing this gorgeous see-through dress.” Des and Zeb knew who Amber Solaire was although they’d both forgotten that she’d been Gordon’s for a while. She was forever in the dance press – all orange tan and big hair and clingy outfits. OK if you like that sort of thing (but neither of them really did). She was a DJ but as far as they could make out it was her breasts and boyfriends who got her most of her work. Not the kind of behaviour to be encouraged (Zeb’s opinion) and crimes punishable by death (Des felt more strongly). And that name? What was she thinking of? Zeb played dumb to see what more Taylor would say on the subject. There was something about this gossip-mongering he was finding quite enjoyable. “She’s a DJ isn’t she?” Taylor snorted. “You could say that. Couldn’t mix a beat before she met me…and didn’t have half as much street cred, but there you go.” ‘Street cred’, there was a phrase you didn’t hear much anymore. Zeb bit his lip. Des fumed on. “I’d given up the charlie before I met her…was getting myself sorted but then I just fell back into it. She was so into partying and meeting everybody and going everywhere. I wanted to show her off and I got carried away. Next thing I knew I was back where I started, ex-wives screaming blue murder, asking for more money, saying I was a bad influence and they wanted to send the kids away to school.” “But you kept your job?” “Well, I got my wrists slapped hard a few times and got all the crap slots and had to cover everyone else’s holidays but yeh, I just about managed to hang onto the job. Maybe it actually helps keep my image young…who knows?” Des had had just about enough. He couldn’t believe this guy thought he had an image to keep up in the first place. What was wrong with the world? It was back to front, inside out and totally bloody insane. Music shouldn’t be about image – it should be about sound, depth, communication. Just as Des was planning his escape to the main room, some food and some different faces, Kerry’s voice reappeared just ahead of her body. “Guys, look who I found! Some mates from back home!” Des turned his head a few degrees and looked up to see who the new arrivals could be. Inside he knew it could only be bad news and he saw in an instant that it was much worse than that. Kerry had shown up with Simon Matthews and Mick from Truth. “I’ll get us all a drink,” beamed Kerry, not noticing the pint that sat untouched waiting for her, “same again you lot?” Gordon was the only one pleased with developments. First he was getting another drink (“gin and tonic, love, double”) and then, even better, he was getting a chance to talk that flashy Mick geezer into putting him on at his club up north. He needed some trendy club exposure – this could be perfect. Kerry aimed herself at the bar and left Mick and Simon stood there, looking down at the drinking threesome in every sense. When they’d met bouncy Kerry in the corridor and she’d said there were some people they might like to hook up with this had most definitely not been any of the people they’d had in mind. They both knew who Zeb and Des were but were experts at pretending they didn’t (‘sorry mate, what was your name again? You do what? Write for who?’). As for Gordon Taylor – Christ the only interesting thing about him was his drug history and the unbelievable truth that he’d ever managed to bed the lovely Miss Solaire. He was a sad old bastard, hanging on to his career by the skin of his wobbly teeth. They had no interest in joining this table – none whatsoever. “So, you here to pick up an award lads?” Simon Matthews couldn’t resist taking the piss. He was just so amusing. Zeb longed to bite Matthews’ expensively covered leg. “Best blaggers of the year?” Matthews continued. “Most unlikely to score this evening?” Gordon, thinking this was good-natured ribbing amongst mates, laughed heartily at the banter and tried to think of some remarks of his own. “Yeh, I’m up for saddest old bastard,” he boomed a little too loud, “I hear you’re a cert for most annoying wanker Simes.” Simon Matthews couldn’t believe it. Who the hell did this old git think he was? He nudged Mick, who hadn’t even deigned to acknowledge Des, Zeb or Gordon and who was looking round the room for anyone worthy of his sought-after attention. Mick was posing in a set of recently purchased outdoor extreme sport fashions (promoter’s discount naturally). He looked good he thought. He hoped everyone had noticed. “Let’s go and help the tart get our drinks,” said Matthews with a shudder and they both set off, not a look or word back to the others. Simon quite liked the back view of young Kerry as it went. He’d just broken up with his last record company girl. He quite fancied a fresh one. Zeb couldn’t contain himself. He didn’t even care if Taylor heard – this was just too much. “Those arseholes,” he seethed, “why did we have to run in to them? They’re so up themselves. And they called Kerry a tart and they’re over there crawling all over her. I’m gonna kill them. I’m gonna fucking kill them.” “OK, rambo,” Des had seen this crazed Zeb before. He knew he had to calm him down and quickly before they all got into a fight they’d never win. “Just try and ignore them. We’ve come to meet some new people, have a good time. Don’t let them get to you.” Taylor’s tipsy mind was trying to follow the conversation but not doing very well. “So, you’re not mates then?” “Mates,” Zeb was nearly sick at the thought of doing anything friendly with Simon bleeding Matthews, “mates! They’re a pair of tossers. They think they’re so great, they make me want to puke!” “What did they do?” Zeb couldn’t even begin to explain. Des wanted to get off the subject and out of the room. Did they travel all this way to sit here all day like dickheads, moaning about the same old shit that they always moaned about so thoroughly at home? “There’s too much to explain,” he said with a solemn tone that suggested a mafia misunderstanding of some kind, “we’d better just get out of here.” “Not without my drink,” Gordon said, too quickly. “Not without my girl,” added Zeb (who had opted for a role in a matinee western rather than a ‘Godfather’ remake), “she’s too nice for that pair of twats.” Des looked over at the damsel to see if she really was in distress. She looked perfectly happy, it must be said, she was grinning at Mick and grinning over at them. Des couldn’t figure out a way to get her away from the evil twins so he decided he’d have to tempt Zeb away instead. “I tell you what, why don’t we find somewhere to smoke a fat one and chill out?” Des could do with a spliff himself and Zeb was very rarely known to decline. “We could get Kerry to meet us next door and shake them off in there.” Zeb was too angry to speak. Then he spoke. He said “OK then.” “What about me?” Taylor sounded forlorn, like a five year old left in the sand pit. Des longed to shake him off too but didn’t have the heart. “Don’t you smoke?” “Sometimes. It doesn’t really agree with me. What if we get caught?” “I thought you said they were all at it next door?” “Yeh, clean drugs…but not smoking weed. They’re really strict about that.” “What?” Des was getting really annoyed now. Bloody clubs, bloody fools, bloody club fools everywhere. “I dunno. ‘Cos it’s so obvious I guess. ‘Cos the waiters can smell it.” “And they can’t see the lines of coke on the table and the white powder dripping out of people’s nostrils?” “OK,” said Taylor, offended, his eyes moistening, “no need to get personal. I said I’d made mistakes. You don’t have to rub it in.” “I didn’t mean you…” Des tried to back track but Taylor was out of his cane chair and stropping off to hunt down his next gin and tonic. He couldn’t wait any longer – he needed the alcohol now. “So what shall we do, Des? Shall we go next door, go get Kerry, what?” Des looked at his mate and saw him upset, ruffled and unhappy. It wasn’t right – they’d come down to get away from all the stuff at home, to meet new people, to get on with their lives and start going somewhere. They shouldn’t have to feel bad because of who they were – because they didn’t have loads of cash or famous friends or pockets full of cocaine. “I know what I’m going to do.” Des calmly put his hand in his right pocket and pulled out an envelope that contained a set of perfectly rolled joints. It was always worth coming prepared and they’d had plenty of time to kill at the coach station this morning. He looked over at the bar and the fuss going on as Taylor sent his drink back for, presumably, not being loaded with enough gin. Des chose a spliff he liked the look of and rested it in his mouth. Straightaway he felt calmer, more at ease, less uptight. He reached for Kerry’s pink lighter that still lay on the table amongst all the other mess. He lit the spliff and took a huge happy breath. So what could happen? They’d get thrown out? They’d walk the streets of London getting into more trouble? That wouldn’t be so bad, would it? What did they need with all these idiots and their sad little world? Music was bigger than this. It was more important than all this running around hotels in the middle of the afternoon, trying to impress people who couldn’t give a crap about you. They could forget it all, stretch out in the park and let the world pass them by. He might even try and be nicer to that receptionist on the way out, get her number, invite her to the party. She was cute, she was friendly, she’d probably look much better in her own clothes. Des took a determined drag and then passed the spliff to Zeb, his undisputed best friend in the whole world. “Your turn, mate,” he grinned, “and this time, if you can Zeb, try and keep the bloody thing dry.”
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