I pretend I’m a DJ every once in a while, usually when one of my DJ mates goes to the toilet, but I have been known to play a few tunes (badly) by myself on occasion.

There’s nothing quite like the butterflies in your stomach feeling as you watch the seconds tick down on the track that’s already playing, knowing that if you don’t play the next one in time, or you play it too early resulting in some horrible sound clashes, 1000 drunk people will either point and laugh at you or they’ll riot.

Despite having more opportunities to become a ‘proper’ DJ (i.e. one that works in clubs rather than one that sits in their bedroom mixing tracks for their ears only) than most, it’s something I’ve never aspired to be. I often wonder why – it’s good money, it appeals to my night-owl tendancies and it’s quite a ‘cool’ job. I think I’m just a coward – no matter how many times I’m faced with the “shall I play it now? now? Arrgh, I’ve missed it! Silence! Bugger!” situation, it doesn’t get any easier. I just don’t think I can deal with the pressure. Or the punters for that matter.

Here’s the mixing desk I used last night to play my one and only track of the night last night during my bathroom break duty for the real DJ, Sex on Fire by Kings of Leon.