Haha a secret I shall take to my grave
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I used to volunteer at a foodbank that catered to some of the most deprived areas of Manchester & the place was full of characters who were working there including a couple of people who were waiting for ops to transistion from male to female, i never hung around to be invited for a post-op touch tho.
Also ‘working’ there were barely functioning alcoholics, spice heads, crack heads, kleptomaniacs, the terminally unemployable, a lot of guys who emigrated from Africa but couldn’t get paying jobs, a guy who was banned from driving because he’d had 2 heart attacks… he drove one of the delivery vans… guys who were recovering from mental breakdowns, a guy who just come out of prison for growing cannabis who was perhaps the funniest guy ive ever met, he drove a van & his first drop off was always his own gaff, where he’d stock his fridge up with the meat he’d half inched from the food bank.
Real ‘Shameless’ shit, same area as well, east Manchester.
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That sounds like me, and everyone I knew before I got out and went to clubs and was introduced to a more functional way of existing. I now live in Australia, and considering growing up in children’s homes and youth correctional facilities, I think that I’m quite presentable(what ever that means) these days. A persons current situation does not dictate their future situation.
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I tried to do a spin back once and it just made the whole tone arm jump. I looked like an idiot. How is it done? Do you have to be gentle with it?
A medium touch I would say*. Just take a pill and it works every single time.
- To be honest I have rarely done once since that night 20 years ago.
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This is a tough one to tell because it is so fucked up and kind of embarrassing but its also kind of funny.
My friend was having a party in Brighton at his shared communal flat and everyone in Brighton is basically a professional caner.
It was on a Saturday night and me and a few others started early Saturday afternoon at the Lion and Lobster, we had a few Guinness, some valium, Coke, Rums, smoke, to start.
Then it started getting to the evening and we were at the party quite early and my friend whipped out a bottle of liquid acid. I then proceeded to consume every drug going, Ketamine, MDMA powder, pills, more coke, valium, rum etc, over the evening.
The night wasn’t going so badly I was completely fucked but hadn’t made a complete cunt of myself so far so was happy.
So it got to 6 in the morning and I am playing some tunes downstairs with just a couple of pretty girls dancing, I would play a tune and dance with them but I was so fucked I wasn’t even thinking about romance, I didn’t care about that. I was in a really nice place.
There were a few people still upstairs in a bedroom still going for it and I would see them occasionally and steal some of whatever they were having.
Then I went to the toilet and when I came out there was a bloke I hadn’t seen all night punching one the girls directly in the face very hard, it was no hallucination it was happening (it turned out this was girls boyfriend and he had a history of beating her up, he turned up at the party after being somewhere else and started on her) but I was tripping hard so I jumped on on him.
Next thing I know am sitting in the locked toilet and one of my fingers is basically bitten right through to the bone I can see tendons.
So now I am tripping hard, (I couldn’t remember what happened) and think the party has been overrun by a load of gypsies and they are killing everybody in the party. So I phoned my brother up and told him what was going on and he told me to fuck off, so I phoned a few other friends and they all told me to fuck off.
i am convinced there is a load of gypsies out there who know I am in the toilet and are waiting for me to come out and kill me.
So I think fuck it I am going to go out fighting so smash the mirror in the bathroom and get a shard prepared for a weapon.
I prepare myself then kick the door open and go running out like rambo.
But there is no one there, it is daylight and I immediately realise I have been tripping hard but my finger is still cut through to the bone.
So I go upstairs and few are still there going for it, its about 10am now.
They look at me and say what the fuck and explain to me what happened with the guy and he had been thrown out but they thought I had gone home.
I got a bowl of salted water and put my hand in it and started necking more gear.
There was about 5 guys there a couple I knew and they start saying you should probably go to hospital and I say yeah will anyone come with me, they are like no fuck that get a taxi up there, I said I didn’t have any money for taxi.
I was completely cunted at this point and my finger looked pretty bad I couldn’t handle going outside.
Im going on about it bit I guess but my finger was looking pretty bad and I noticed one guy was getting annoyed with me and he said here mate here is 20 quid get yourself a taxi up there, I said cheers mate and took the twenty quid of him and bought 2 pills with it of the guy sitting next to me and turned round and necked them in front of the guy who gave me the money.
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Did the finger heal? What happened with it?
Well we carried on until Monday morning, In the end there were just 3 of us they were cool guys, doing more acid listening to Bowie it was a really good night my hand still in the salt solution.
Then about 4am Monday morning I thought I should go home. So I went home and thought yeah Ill have a nice wank to send me off looked at my hand and thought I should go up the hospital so phoned an ambulance. And went to the hospital and spent three days there, I needed and operation on my finger.
When I went in for surgery i said to the Surgeon will I be able to play the piano after the operation he said yes , I said well I cant now. (Tommy Cooper).
Its worse to get bit by a human than a dog, but the worse is a camel.
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I dont do class a´s anymore, for years but I dont regret any of it, its the best entertainment.
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I saw the guy a few months later at an open air party and he didnt see me, I thought about revenge but there is no point, people like that are better alive living in there own hell. Only use violence when you really have to.
Modern day After Hours, you should send a script to Marty. Mad things always happen in Brighton, went to some weird Social Club near Seven Dials for a afternoon pint before we went out to see the Lee ‘Scratch’ Perry. Someone was walking around with a plate of Brownies, how nice I thought. One thing led to another and early hours ended when Julio Bashmore turned off the sound to ask me if I was okay, tripped off into wonderland, constant source of amusement to my mates still.
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Around 1994 ish. A guy I was friendly with who really liked my mix tapes - a big house head, massive drugs monkey. Asked me to play a family do he was having in the middle of nowhere in some town hall reception room. He’d love to hear me DJ, it’ll be great. I had to bring my own decks and mixer and they had booked a PA. Promised £100 - a fortune to me in 1994!
I said beforehand it’s ok that I’ll be playing house and disco stuff all night yeah? It’s not like a wedding disco thing? He was like yeah mate, can’t wait, it’s all family and friends, they’ll all be bang into it, everyone will be off it, it’ll be a great night.
I get there, a couple of mates having driven us over, set up all my stuff, two boxes full of house, disco and the old Balearic wobbler.
Within maybe 5 minutes it dawns on me that everyone there is in dinner jackets and posh frocks, the family includes loads of grandmas, old aunts, rugby types, pissed uncles, school age kids, and the small group of “mates” clearly already on one but desperately trying to hold it together.
Fuck.
Within 15 minutes the first requests were coming in for “music we know”, “something we can dance to”, the usual wedding disco nonsense.
Fuck. I’ve got two boxes of pumping House and Disco.
Keep going.
Explain to increasingly baffled/rude/old family members that sorry i was asked to play this kind of music, I don’t have anything else. Nobody dancing. Lots more confused/angry looks. The group of mates nowhere to be seen (all in the bogs doing lines, outside smoking spliff probably).
On it goes for an hour or so. Fuck, four more hours to go. Sweating a bit now.
More requests. Then the rude teenage posh girls wanting to look in the record box. “What’s this? Would we know it?”
The “party” lads finally reappear and start dancing but the guy whose party it is has clearly been getting loads of grief from the family side of the crowd and starts pestering me to play something - anything - people will know.
And then I play the worst record I have ever played in public. Worse than Come on Eileen, which I did play at someone’s wedding once and is at least a fine pop record.
I pull out a DMC mix album that had a cracking remix of Once In A Lifetime on … and on the B side there it is, the wedding disco saviour - a Human League Megamix. Stuck it on. Immediate dance floor rush.
But that’s it. I know there is absolutely nothing left in the box that will work the same magic.
So back to disco, none of it anything Uncle Bellend will know. Dance floor empties. More angry exchanges from pissed up rugby types. A request for “something by Apache Indian” and finally I give in. Call the bloke over and say mate this is just horrific, nobody is having a good time, what we going to do? No problem he says. Vanishes off for five minutes, comes back with a CD player and a Now That’s What I Call Music album, hooks it up to the mixer, and that’s them all sorted for the night.
I pack my boxes away and take the decks, out of there on the edge of a nervo. Leave the mixer to collect from the guy the next day. Drive back to Leeds.
The whole experience wasn’t even two hours but felt like about two weeks. Next day we go and pick up the mixer.
The guy calls up a few days later - he had a cracking night (off his head), but the family didn’t like the music. Genuinely apologetic that it was all a bit stressful, said he’d send me the cash.
Never heard from him again.
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Compared to the above the couple of years I spent basically living off West End bar gigs were a breeze.
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Loads of shitty gigs, but nothing compared to the worst of the above!
Acid house alldayer in the backroom of a pub. I’m on first in the afternoon. There’s nobody there. Not even the promoter. Just a load of old guys drinking in the main bar. The decks have been set up the night before, so I just go in and do my thing. A small dog wanders in and gives me a sympathetic look and stays. Then a woman comes in to get some privacy to breastfeed her baby. Then my girlfriend shows up with some girls from her work who are all excited that I’m a DJ. Their disappointment is palpable.
God knows why, but I get booked to play a techno night at Chambre 69 in Glasgow. Turn up with a box of records to find there are no turntables and some young lad kicking the utter arse out the music at 11pm to an empty floor. My friend has to drive to my house to collect my own turntables (I wanted to still get paid!) The atmosphere is not improved by my set! I have to chase the promoter down for my money and find him hiding from in a toilet cubicle to avoid paying. These are the kind of gigs I would have no problem saying no to now.
On paper this one should have been great. I’m told that I’m playing in the small disco room of a large event. Myself then Al Kent, then Danny Krivit. On an original
Urei. Amazing. The other room was techno, Steve Bug and a load of others. The promoters are professional guys and good people. I think they just put on too many large events too close to each other and this one didn’t sell. So they gather us all together and tell us that they are only opening the main room and just gonna squeeze us all on for shorter sets. I go on between two banging techno DJs and open with some beautiful disco record. There were definitely far more techno fans than disco heads in attendance that night. Steve Bug also had the pleasure of following Danny Krivit later on!
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Gig early 90s, mate convinced me to do a ‘cheeky half’ 30 minutes before I went on, I mean, what could go possibly wrong.
Think it was half way through Kym Sims ‘Too Blind To See It’ (#irony) where I literally collapsed over the turntables. Had to get escorted off the decks similar to James Brown when he did his act, with the cape thrown over my shoulders.
Had to get off the stage (yes, a stage) and make my way through the crowd/dry ice to a seat up the back of the room until I came down a bit.
Don’t think I got paid.
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Ian Dewhirst – “Embarrassing Tales from the DJ booth” 26/10/10
This is painful but true.
When I was up in Leeds in the late 70’s I deejayed for a while at a huge bar/club opposite Leeds Train station called Amnesia.
Since Amnesia was formally a bank, they ended up building a balcony and stage area about 20 feet above the ground level and the only way you could get up to the DJ stand was via a metal ladder which went up through a trapdoor in the floor of the new balcony and was accessible behind the bar. At the bottom of the metal ladder there were two ‘handrests’ which inexplicably had spikes at the top of each one.
Over the course of the next few months, so many people were going up and down the ladder that one of the holding screws on the right-hand top of the ladder starting working loose.
On this particular night, the place was packed and being the DJ and having to keep popping up and down the ladder to get drinks, go for a piss etc, etc, everyone would see me zipping up and zipping down this ladder every hour or so.
The place was peaking at around 10.00pm and I thought I’d better get a drink in to glide through till 11.30pm and closing time, so I zipped over to the trapdoor and started down the ladder when the right hand-screw came loose which suddenly spun the ladder round and I lost my footing.
Result was, I ended up sliding 20 feet down the left-hand side of the ladder and the only thing which prevented me crashing to the floor was the fact that my balls slammed into the spiked armrest at around 20 mph resulting in me literally hanging by my balls about 4 feet above the ground.
This was in front of around 1000 people who witnessed the whole thing.
The pain was f*ckin’ indescribable - essentially the most pain I’ve ever endured in my entire life. But the thing is, 'cos everyone was watching, I couldn’t be uncool. So despite the white-hot shards of pain which were screaming from my balls, I very cooly shook my head and then lifted my balls off the spike and very gingerely continued to the bottom of the ladder.
I then went down to the loo, went in a cubicle, assumed a foetus-like position on the floor and bawled my eyes out.
After about 10-15 minutes, the pain subsided enough for me to very carefully stand up. I didn’t dare even look at the damage ‘cos I didn’t really want to see it. But the pain was subsiding, so I carefully walked back upstairs, got my drink, very carefully went back up the f*ckin’ ladder and started deejaying again. I had a seat up there but I couldn’t actually sit down - it was that tender. But the show must go on etc, etc…
A couple of hours later, I’d had a few more drinks and seemed to be a bit more mobile and ended up going to my second gig of the night up at the In-Time.
I’d been after one of the dancers up there for a while and typically she decided to choose this night for some action, so by 3.00am I was over at her place and she wanted to give me the works. I mentioned to her about the 20mph balls-spike scenario and told her I wasn’t feeling as robust as usual but that just seemed to encourage her. So we ended up having a pretty intense session. By this point I’d had a ton of drinks and had gone past the point of pain so it didn’t seem too bad at the time.
Anyway, I woke up the next morning tried to swing out of bed and collapsed in agony. Oh and my balls were the size of 2 massive grapefruits. Couldn’t move at all. They had to send an ambulance and take me to hospital.
It turned out that I’d badly twisted my epidydimis and the sex session has basically exploded my balls. Here’s some backgound info on the epidydimus by the way:-
The whole thing cost me 10 days in hospital before it was eventually sorted out.
However the new balls have been so much better than the old ones ever were…
There’s actually a further embarassing postscript to this, but the post-traumatic stress of writing all this up for the first time ever has made me want to assume a foetal position again!
"Exploding Balls" - The Epilogue
So, shortly after I was admitted to hospital, the first thing they had to do was ‘drain’ my balls to relieve the pressure on my twisted epididymus. This meant that a young lady had to insert a drainage tube into my ball sac which continued the pain threshold to even greater heights. Also, because of my unfeasibly large testicles the only position that I could really adopt, was to lay in bed with my legs wide open so I didn’t accidentally smash my grapefruit-sized balls with one of my legs.
It was whilst I was in this position in my hospital bed aproximately 24 hours later, when a consultant doctor and 12 trainee medical students started doing the rounds of the ward. Immediately, I recognised at least 3 young female students who were regulars at the Warehouse, one of which I really fancied.
Imagine my horror, when the consultant doctor headed over to my bed with the 12 students and then pulled the curtain around my area and asked me what my ailment was.
What else could I do? I had to tell 'em that I’d slid down a 20ft ladder and impaled my testicles on a metal spike.
Already the 3 female students were smirking but the sting in the tail, was when I had to basically hoist my arse in the air and show all 12 students my swollen grapefruit balls complete with the bespoke ball-sac drainage tube.
I never did get to nail her. I mean, there’s simply no coming back from some situations is there?
Bionic testicles?
I enquired about 'em at the time 'cos I genuinely thought my balls were history.
I mean, sliding down a 20 ft metal ladder @ 20 mph and slamming your own balls into a 2" metal spike is really expecting a lot in terms of the durability, general robustness and long-term prospects of the average set of balls.
So yes. Obviously I enquired about the possibility of acquiring bionic balls. I mean who wouldn’t?
However, despite the obvious armageddon of my overall genital area, the experts in the field collectively assured me that I should leave things to mend and then assess the situation once I’d managed to heal.
Personally, I’d have PREFERRED to be fitted with a set of stainless-steel balls but that wasn’t to be.
Instead I had to stay with my original set of badly damaged balls, which, as luck would have it, did manage to recover some of their former invincibility.
However, since the accident, I’ve always had a tender spot on my left ball.
This has resulted in me saying things like…
“If you could take it easy on the left ball that’d be great”
or
“My left ball suffered a major trauma in 1979, so if we could kinda swerve too much action in that general area, then we’re rockin’ and rollin’ babes!”
or
“Forget any squeezing of the balls babe. That’s just not gonna work OK…?”
So it’s difficult.
Basically I’m damaged goods.
And that’s the cross I have to bear guys.
It ain’t easy…
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Aaaaaaah
That’s all I can say right now
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Hilarious, like something from a Carry On film
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Christ on a bike
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