How to throw your name away - 'Blog DJ'

Wynberg's 'Elton John'

“Absolutely not.  Don’t even think about it.  You are crazy.”  I folded my arms in the time-honoured fashion which my family recognize as the signal that further discussion is pointless.

It was two months ago at one of the early planning meetings of the Night of the Stars Organising Committee,  Chairlady, Jeanette Muller had posed the idea of a Battle of the DJ’s culminating in a guest appearance from someone who regarded himself as being bashful and retiring.

“Anyway, I am the shy type,” I said, hoping that would put an end to this discussion, not liking the way it was going.  I was at the meeting to talk bookstalls and food outlets, not an excruciatingly humiliation in the glare of a public spotlight.

“Judd will show you what to do,” pleaded Gail Bevan.  “You will just have to stand there.”

Yea, right.

I fired my final shot – the coup de grace.  “Okay, but I want to play my music – Cliff Richard and Francois Hardy. And you are not to tell a soul.  Definitely not the teaching staff.”

They agreed with alacrity.  I only found out later that those musical peasants around the table thought that Cliff Richard and Francois Hardy were two members of staff.

I then heard nothing for weeks. Just like boys who have a problem at school, I thought that if nothing was said, it would all disappear.  It was not to be.  I knew I was in trouble when I found my wife, Pippa,  looking at me strangely over the breakfast table a week ago – a little smile playing on her lips. “Am I going to be embarrassed at the Night of the Stars?” she asked.

I played the innocent.  “I have no idea what you are talking about,” I said and went back dismissively to the newspaper.  It looked as if those piranhas had not forgotten.

They hadn’t.  On the morning of last Friday, Gail Bevan triumphantly arrived  at my office door with Judd in tow and plonked the sound system  down on my table and handed over an assorted of flashing t-shirts, twinkling glasses and a fluorescent wig which had last seen service in the Bo-Kaap on Tweede Nuwe Jaar.

Sweeping aside my protestations (who is really in charge of this school?), she instructed Judd to train me up.  He ran me through all the knobs and switches – which was wasted on me – and then said that if I wanted to wow the crowd, I must scratch.

“I know it is a male thing, but there is no chance of me scratching on stage in front of that crowd,” I told him emphatically.  Patiently, he instructed me how to scratch the turntable.

I watched the skies hopefully all afternoon.  Where was rain when you needed it?  The predicted showers had blown over by 3.30 and the crowds were pouring in.  “I think we are alright now,” said Business Manager Brian Wakeling with far too much enthusiasm. 

“No, we are not…”  I replied gloomily.

When the DJ competition started, the majority of my friends decided that it was time to go. “Good idea,” I told them all wondering what the result would be if I left with them.

Jordan Lamoral, one of the comperes, came to call me.  “I suspect that I am going to throw my name away here,” I told him as we walked backstage.  “What name?” he replied with a cherubic and innocent smile.   Little does he know that I still have to do his term report this weekend.

'Francoise Hardy' & 'Jack Parow'

Jake Rigby met me at the back of the stage.  He asked me what my DJ name was.  “Dinosaur Rex,” I announced firmly.  It was lost and him and I know that I was wasting my time.  “I am going to announce you as Jack Parow.  He is a famous DJ and the crowd will go wild….  You must walk like he does -  arrogantly with your arms raised.”

I did what I was told and strutted on, arms raised, feeling like Winnie Mandela walking out of Victor Verster. The crowd went quiet.  I thought Jake said that they would go wild…?  Then all hell broke loose.  I saw boys running from every corner of the ground and to my horror, I saw the Bill Bowden regulars stumble off the balcony.  I knew I was in trouble.

“Don’t worry, Sir.  It is only 13 minutes,” said Judd.  So I pranced and gallivanted for what seemed an eternity.  “That must be about it,” I gasped to staff members  Andrea van Eck and Daniel Ramage who were gallanting supporting me on stage – poor substitutes for Cliff and Francois.   “Thank heavens for that.”

“Twelve minutes to go,” said Andrea with relish, thoroughly enjoying herself.

I heard later that a neighbour came over to complain about the noise. “Where is the headmaster?” he complained to one of the parents.  She pointed wordlessly to the bewigged fool on stage gyrating in the smoke.  Shaking his head, and no doubt bemoaning the current state of educational  leadership in the country, he stalked off.

Thirteen minutes seemed like thirteen hours.  I met one of the Matrics,  Nathan Gogela,  as I came off the stage.  He was shaking with mirth and, giving me innumerable high fives,  collapsed quaking and quivering on my shoulders.  I must re-look at his report as well.

Trying to be inconspicuous, I went to the Bill Bowden. “That WAS embarrassing” said my unsympathetic wife.  “I had to take the dog home.”

Tim Timlin was more supportive.  “I thought that it was quite good, except for the jerking of the music.”  I looked at him more in sorrow than in scorn. “Surely you know what scratching is?”

I still think that I am the shy type….