Tales of catastophe, sex and squalor from the Alpine Underbelly...

Belle de Neige

Saturday, 19 June 2010

The DJ

The DJ moved in this week… and is, as many (with one or two important exceptions) of my acquaintance over the years have been:

1. Aggressively self centred (case in point: he hasn’t asked me a single question about myself since he arrived, but I know his life story)
2. Mildly self satisfied
3. A bit of a scab
4. Tight
5. Fond of dense, drunk leggy blondes and getting off his tits

Standard fare.

However to give the guy his due, he has good shoes, considerable talents when it comes to producing tech house, can squeeze himself into alarmingly tight jeans, is mostly kind and laid back and has a physics degree . He is also fucking clumsy and keeps breaking kitchenware.


‘Oh FUCK! Where did that come from?’....I keep hearing from the kitchen

Oddly, it turns out he’s one half of a quite well known double act. An attractive American friend of mine stopped by for coffee on Wednesday and they proceeded to chew each other’s ears off about life the universe and everything for several hours. The next day I received an impressed Facebook message from her:

‘I can’t believe you’re living with (insert name) from (insert name of DJ double act)!!…He’s so hot – lucky girl!’

Hmmmm. You may remember me saying I didn’t mind if this DJ chap was a fuckhead, as long as he didn’t try to fuck me. And I stand by that. He’s completely not my type. The colouring’s all wrong. And we’re talking Just For Men out of a bottle wrong here. A slightly paunchy, 38-year-old kidult with delusions of grandeur? Not really my style darling.

It’s true, my potential for getting free drinks and hanging around celeb-type DJ circles has just escalated by a good 50% over night ...as long as I’m up for scurrying around after him like a doe-eyed hanger on. Which I’m not sure I am.

So sadly, what would be revered by DJ whores the world over as a golden opportunity, is somewhat wasted on me, as I don’t shag DJs as a matter of principle.


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