I’ve haven’t had dealings with Klaus before, and tell him about our decks problem. He laughs in my face. — We have not had record turntables in here for over a decade!
— Is there nothing around, on any of the other stages?
He looks at me as if I’m tapped, shakes his head slowly.
— Fuck. What can we do? Exasperation has made me publicly air my concern. Big mistake. Ye never show your doubts or fears in this game. Suck it all up.
The promoter shrugs. — If you cannot play, we cannot pay. Somebody else will do the slot.
Carl, loitering at the long Formica-topped bar, has caught this exchange and comes over. The bastard is already ablaze with ching. At least that makes my next question to Klaus superfluous. — Mark, you’re a manager, aye?
I ken exactly where this is gaun, but my lot in life is tae play this tedious game out. — Aye.
— So fucking manage. Find a set ay turntables. Should not be mission impossible here in Berlin. Still plenty time before the gig. Now I’m going tae wander the festival site, have a few drinks, and try and get ma cock sucked. I’ve always liked German birds.
I’m sucking down my wrath, at him, yes, but also at myself. There’s little tae be gained in protesting impotently and I’ve been here before. As galling as it is to admit, the cunt is right. It is my job tae solve problems and right now we have a big yin. But I cannot believe this fuckin doss cunt. — DJs huvnae used vinyl since John Robertson was a Hibby. If you’d spun since fuckin 9/11 you’d fuckin well realise that. That’s why you have airms like a fucking ape, cartin they boaxes aboot. A fuckin USB, that’s aw you need. You dump your set into the Pioneer, press play and pump your fists in the air like a daft cunt. That is DJing now. Get teckied up, no eckied up!
Conrad and Emily seem friendlier; they’ve been working together in the studio, which is good news. I’m concerned with his secrecy about this track, though. I hope the fat fuck isn’t cutting a deal with somebody else. He comes over, drawn to our conflict, and wobbles his head, sniggering in derision. — So unprofessional.
Carl responds in haughty disdain. — Others might get doon wi aw that shite, bro, he says to me, not even looking at my Dutch star, — that’s no fucking DJing but, no tae me, he sings in defence. But he’s covering up the fact that he’s embarrassed. Carl is more like a fish out ay water every day and I ken exactly how the poor bastard feels.
So I’m off, oot ay the site, intae the street, trying tae get a fucking signal on the mobby tae find music-equipment stores, which is almost impossible with the crowds milling around, all on their phones. Eventually, the bars pop up and I’m scrolling around, looking for some kind ay shopping district, but there seems to be nothing around for miles. The sky is blackening and it’s starting to drizzle. I wander despondently for a bit, heading through a big flea market.
I can’t believe it.
I’m normally as blind as a Scottish referee over long distances, but desperation has given me X-ray vision. Literally fifteen minutes outside the site, in this market, is an electrical goods stall. I still have to walk closer to confirm that jumping the fuck out at ays among knock-off fridges, freezers, amps and stereos, there really are two old-school Technics decks! My heart is pounding, and even more uncannily: THEY HAVE NEEDLES AND CARTIDGES! Thank you, God! Thank you, God of Edinburgh dance music…
I approach a young Middle Eastern-looking kid in an Everton FC football top. — The decks, do they work?
— Yes, of course, he says. — As if they are new.
— How much?
— Eight hundred euros. His expression is gravely serious.
— These are ancient, I scoff. — Two hundred.
— They are vintage, he says coolly, brows arching, lips riding back to display a set of dazzling white choppers. — Seven hundred and fifty.
— No way. They probably don’t even work. Three hundred.
The kid’s face does not change one reflexive muscle. — They work as new. I can only go to seven hundred. You look anxious, as if you need them urgently. You must think of this as a favour I am doing you, mister.
— Fuck… I delve intae ma pockets and count out the poppy. Thankfully, a manager eywis needs a wad. There’s eywis some cunt – drug dealer, hotel doorman, taxi fucker, hanger-on, security, polisman – who wants paying off or needs a bung. The wee cunt is now smiling, serenading me with a chorus ay — As new, my friend, as new…
— You’re a manipulative, unscrupulous, little fucker. I hand the boy the cash and issue him ma embossed card. — Ever contemplated a career in the music business?
20
SICK BOY – BUSINESS CLASS
Sitting up in business class is an unmitigated delight. It’s not so much the benefits of the actual service; more knowing you’ve got your status over the plebs officially confirmed for the next three hours. From my seat, I pull an obligatory face of impatient disdain as they pass by me, on their walk of shame to steerage. That aside, it gives me the luxury of territory and time to think things through.
Across the aisle, there’s a gay bastard; blond hair, tight trews, blue round-collar T-shirt, and he’s being outrageously loud. I kind of wish Ben was like that. What’s the point of having a buftie-boy son who isn’t outrageously effete? Who just wants to live a boring hetero life? Oppression breeds struggle, which engenders culture, and it would be shite if swashbuckling camp was to vanish from the globe just because some uptight cunts have finally discovered that the world is round. This boy, mid-thirties, is a bit of a star. Even the stewards – outrageous ferrets to a man – are all cast as Ernie Wise in face of his swaggering affectation. In the name of sport, I decide to compete with him to see who can be the most mincing, self-indulgent, attention-seeking cunt on the plane. — Try-ing to get a drink on this death trip. I shake my hand enough to indicate nerves, but also to suggest that the wrist is a bit rubbery.
This ploy backfires spectacularly when the raving arse bandit takes a massive shine to me, seeing my narcissistic Olympiad as a form of buftie seduction. — I dee-tect Celt in that brogue! the queen squeals in excitement.
— Oh you do, I storm back, — courtesy of me being back this side of Hadrian’s Wall for the first time in a long time. And there was me thinking that my inner Mel Gibson was a dormant force!
— Oh no, I assure you he’s alive and kicking, but sans the fetching plaid!
Suddenly a stewardess is upon us, bearing glasses of champagne. — An angel of mercy. I down one instantly as my hand reaches to another. — May I?
She smiles indulgently.
— You’ll have to forgive me, I hold the spare glass of champers to my chest, — I am such a nervous flyer!
— Oh stop, says the queen, taking his glass, — I am so anxious as I have my dogs in the hold, two labradoodles, and they aren’t used to travelling.
As I quaff the extra champers, and we taxi, then take off, I tell the frantic buftie a horror story about two pit bulls in a plane hold, one of whom ripped off the other’s bottom jaw. — They turned on each other after the luggage shifted and crushed against them. I lean over and drop my voice. — They don’t look after animals on these flights. You do have insurance, yes?