While on the 6th of January numerous Greeks and Russians were celebrating Christmas, I was celebrating my birthday. Now for me, birthdays are always a bit of a shambles. Not bad, just a bit haphazard. I never really do much and Ma always wants to go for lunch or dinner come hell or highwater. My 21st was particularly memorable, not only because we went to dine at one of the UK's least vegetarian friendly restaurant chains, but also because I was rather ill with flu and almost passed out over the salad cart. I spent the rest of the meal slumped over our table. Last year was my 30th and was rather more successful, except for the fact that I had a three course meal for lunch with the family and then a huge dinner with friends and then indigestion for a week. So this year I was quite relieved when Megan told me her 30th birthday bash would be held on the night of my birthday.
And then she asked me to DJ.
I've never DJed before. I've organised music for parties, but have never actually used a mixer be it a CD or a record mixer. So I was rather nervous. And this will explain why I got it wrong.
I prepared a couple of hours worth of music, not thinking I'd use it all, and arrived at the venue with Megan so Matt could show me how to use the equipment. And then I got confused. And instead of starting at 9:30, I started at 8:15. And DJed for over 2 hours. I did worry I would have to stop when Cathy decided to start pressing buttons and sliding sliders on the machinery, but after a quick bit of shouting and some stern looks from Matt she was suitably chastised and left the DJ area. I don't want to DJ again though, because while I got to play lots of my favourite songs I didn't get to dance to them. Boo! And no-one else appreciates Betty Boo quite like I do.
The party itself was great. Other Megan came back from France, Cathy, Mandy, Kofi, Terese and a host of others were there, and fortunately Cathy and Mandy were well equipped with make-up to help allcomers achieve the required Moustache and/ or Lipstick look. Unfortunately for Cathy, her eyeliner pencil was Clinique, so every moustache she drew on cost her at least five pounds. Mine was worth £20 alone I suspect...
While I, South American pimp extraordinaire, look on and survey my kingdom (the bar), I clutch my support (Terese) and my young male latin lover (Mandy). Oh how a few eyeliner moustaches can make a difference. If only my lipstick was a deeper shade of red...
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