My brother the DJ

My brother’s gone and moved back home for precisely the reason I did. It’s a bit like that story about two brothers moving home only I don’t remember which exactly – but it is like that story.

Basically it’s that we’ve had our independence for a while and then everything’s gone slightly wrong so we’ve lost our self-dignity, money, food and the good grace not to just hurl ourselves off of something tall instead. Good. Right.

My brother, well he’s a bit smaller than me but he’s broader by two. He’s quite nice usually in so far as we get on for about ten minutes before he’s trying to stab me or before I’m bursting with frustration, but that’s what siblings are supposed to do, right, and always it’s much of a muchness.

Me and him, we’ve fought about an awful lot. He chews his food funny. I can’t watch him eat. He calls me a ‘bitch’. I call him a ‘thug’. He throws crates of beer at me. I sulk and slam doors. He resents my education. I resent his confidence. He thinks I’m lazy. I think he’s ignorant. He steals my t-shirts. I steal his soul. That’s a lie.

Anyway, he’s a DJ is what he is. He’s not a paid one, though possibly he should be. Leastways he’s good at it. At the moment he’s setting his turntables up in the room adjacent to mine – through a wall so thin you could maybe smell his trumps of an evening. It’s like he’s already testing my resolve not to dash my head on my windowsill. He keeps testing his speakers by dribbling insanely wobbly basslines through them, and it’s making me agitated on account of how I’m already trying to listen to something in weird time-signatures. All of it’s making my head wonk off. Furthermore I don’t really enjoy it.

Apparently he can’t decide what his name should be. I keep suggesting things like:

DJ Gronk.
DJ Googlewhack.
DJ Rinsespin.
DJ Pizza.
DJ Herod.
DJ Tripod.
DJ Formaldehyde.
DJ Hangover.
DJ Semaphore.

And so on. In fact I’ve realised you can DJ most nouns and verbs, but I’m often finding that they’re all bollocks anyhow, and nobody’s actually been brave enough to refer to themselves as DJ Noun. Which means I’m now called DJ Noun even though I’m not actually a DJ and even though I wouldn’t know how to jockey a disc if there was, say, a transformer who was a vinyl record that changed into a horse and asked me if I’d like to play on it.

Always you’ll get to the conclusion that DJ names are synonyms for relentlessly snorting cocaine, or about humans moving in strange and rapid ways.