A letter to DJ Crankypants

Dear uninspiring ex-DJ,

I write to apologise to you for...i'm not exactly sure what I am apologising for, actually.

I guess I am sorry that you felt compelled to quit your esteemed post as ‘mediocre DJ at occasionally violent, generally sleazy and consistently crap backpackers bar in the middle of nowhere’ on Saturday night.

I am also sorry that you thrust responsibility for this flippant act – terminating your own employment on the spot – onto the fairly insignificant shoulders of myself and my partner in apparent dancefloor crime, Michelle.

When we requested a song, and you voluntarily played it, we did not expect that you would become suddenly outraged at your own actions. When we asked for the song – a hip, danceable ditty by Regina Spektor, to counteract the offensively repetitive RnB that you were delivering to the half asleep mass of about 15 peeps on the dance floor – you were all happy happy smily little DJ man. Sure, requesting the same song 8 times may have been excessive, but you seemed to relish our visits to you up there at your pulpit.

You like the song. Or so you said, and the fact that you have played it before does lend merit to this claim. But on this occasion, something occurred during those three minutes of refreshing, inventive pop: you lost it completely.

I, personally, had a ball. We danced and danced and, contrary to popular* belief, the interlude did not clear the dancefloor of the other patrons (whom I suspect may in fact be the dancing dead).

When we approached you on the floor just after the song finished, our cheers, claps and delirious attempts to hug you were met with The Hand – that immortal gesture implying that the recipient should speak to the hand rather than the face of the offended party. You then released a relentless and at times completely incomprehensible tirade implying that as a direct result of us requesting this song, your reputation had been ruined and that all the trust that you had built up, week by week (since April or was it May?), in the hearts of your employer and your ‘fans’, was now lost. You yelled at our faces some more, before dramatically announcing that you QUIT and stormed off.

Michelle and I have discussed the matter between ourselves – both immediately after the event and in the sober clarity of the succeeding days - and neither one of us remembers holding a knife to your throat, a gun to your head, or so much as a piece of broken toilet seat craftily held under our cardigan to resemble an anonymous yet heinous weapon as we made our requests.

I wish you the best of luck in your future endeavours. Go forth, take your skills to the people and continue to make the world a better place, a place where we live by the teachings of RnB poets and preachers, and where half-dead dancing hos reign supreme!!!

Sarah