Phones 4 A Fool - Part 2
Topic: levers
For those of you who haven't at least skim-read Phones 4 A Fool - Part 1 (posted November 12), the following article might make even less sense that it might otherwise. You have been warned.........
Several months ago, my second mobile phone met with something of a premature death, plummeting towards a watery grave down one of Oxford’s finest lavatories. The events that led up to this incident are as follows.
With great joy, we gathered in Oxford to witness the coming together in holy matrimony of our long-term friends, Alex Roger Rogers and Gail Roger Bartlett (I believe she chose to keep her maiden name for professional purposes, making her full name Gail Roger Bartlett-Rogers*).
*This again, may be factually incorrect. I feel I really must sack my researcher.
My main duty for the duration, along with the world renowned fish fetishist Mr Robert Cowler (and, if you’ve ever seen http://robcowler.tripod.com/robblog you’ll know what I mean), was to act as DJ for the evening’s entertainment. Now, having never Deejay’d previously, I thought it something of a good idea to get in plenty of practice beforehand. And when I say practice, I mean writing lots and lots of set lists as opposed to actual proper deejaying. Oh no, neither me, nor Mr Cowler would actually come within walking distance of an actual turntable until the morning of the wedding, so confident were we.
Now, whenever your compiling a list of suitable records for a DJ set, I believe you have to take into consideration a number of factors such, as the audience, the type of occasion, and the time the time of day the set would be going out (only done it once, but already thinks he’s an expert).
Certain tracks are a definite no-no on such occasions. For example, when someone important dies, radio stations up and down the country revert to what’s known as their emergency play-list. When Diana died, it might’ve been deemed offensive to have played a Mungo Gerry’s ‘In the Summertime’, which includes the line ‘Have a drink, have a drive, Go out and see what you can find’. In Diana, and Dodi’s case, this was to have their chauffeur driven limousine wrapped around the inside of a Paris tunnel. Not that I’m in anyway implying the chauffer was pissed that night, as I don’t particularly want to be seen to be adding to the ever growing list of conspiracy theories that have been populating column inches in the Daily Express for the last ten years. Incidentally, someone who finds ‘In the Summertime’ offensive all the time, is Mungo Gerry’s drummer, who is still to this day, completely cut up that a) it was Mungo Gerry’s only hit, and b) that he never actually got to appear on the record.
I know, because I’ve been to his club in Burnham, and I must have lost count of the number of times someone’s made the mistake of slipping the record on the Jukebox, and then they act so surprised when they’re barred.
Anyway, when the Queen Mother died, one of the specified tracks radio stations opted to play was Golden Brown by the Stranglers, which is of course about taking heroin. What does that say about our Royal Family, huh?
And no, I’m afraid there could be no hardcore house played at the wedding, either. Sorry, Matthew Mann.
Similarly, I found I had to avoid songs with lyrics that could in anyway be deemed to be approaching anything even remotely resembling swearing, as this could potentially alienate the more senior members of the wedding party. And so, “The Man Don’t Give A F***” by the Super Furry Animals was definitely out, as the number of f***s involved probably approaches treble figures. Although Radio 1 were forced to play a hastily arranged radio edit one Sunday afternoon, when the track entered the Top 40, but as the edit didn’t extend much beyond the 30 second mark, it probably wasn’t worth the bother
In the same vain, I had to drop “Holla Back Girl” by Gwen Stefani. An excellent pop record, which had been doing the rounds on radio and television for a number of weeks in the run up to the wedding. Unfortunately, the version of the song I had was taken from the album, as opposed to the clean radio friendly version that had been gaining airplay. If you’ve got a copy of the LP, you’ll find that the word “s***” appears a total of 38 times in a little over three minutes. I know, because I’ve counted.
And so, alas this song also had to go. Although Chris thought it would have been a great idea to slip it into Rob’s set, and thus unleash the combined wrath of the Rogers and Bartlett families upon him. However, as I was relying on Rob for a lift back to Bristol the next day, I didn’t think it was such a good idea.
Anyway, the first set had gone so damn well that I thought I should’ve been presented with a Sony Award on the spot. But, alas none were presented, and so I left the DJ booth to relieve myself in one of Corpus Christie’s finest gold plated lavatories, whilst Rob took to the, er, ‘decks’ as I believe they’re called. Although when I say DJ booth, I actual mean the 3ft space between the dance floor and the bar, where the DJ equipment was propped up on a hastily erected table.
To tell the truth, I had great trouble actually finding the toilet, and it was only through the combined efforts of myself and Mr Hill, that we were able to find it at all. If your wondering, Chris’s seal had broken at this point, and he would be making a return trip approximately every thirty minutes for the rest of the night.
Anyway, Chris took the first stall, I took the second. I imagine Mr Hill was stood up, as I believe he only required to relieve himself of a number one (if you really want me to paint a picture). As I’d been eating my daily intake of ruffage (or more likely, the McDonald’s chicken nugget’s and chips I’d had about twelve o’clock earlier in the day) I chose to take a more seated stance, as I felt that I might be in for something of . Little did I know quite how long that would actually be.
Chris finished his business, and asked if I was indeed partaking in a number two. I replied to the affirmative, and he walked off to rejoin the throng.
Little did he know, only moments earlier, I had sat on the throne, and my mobile which was at the time secreted in my jacket pocket, had opted to make a bid for freedom and leapt from my jacket pocket down into the watery depths of the toilet bowel below
Fortunately at this stage I had not begun the act that becomes naturally (well not yet anyway), and by the time Mr Hill had enquired to the status of my bodily functions, I had already plucked the phone from it’s watery grave, and set about trying to restore the phone to health, using ample amounts of toilet paper.
What follows next, is so grim and disgusting that I can barely bring myself to write about it. And so I won’t be too offended if you opt at this point to close this browser window, and actually get on with some work.
Okay, you have been warned.
In order to try and salvage my mobile’s well being, I had made the decision to separate it into bits. So I now had the phone itself, the back of the phone, the sim card, and the battery.
And so, it was while wiping down the battery that my hand slipped, and the said technologically piece of hardware brilliance opted to make a second break for freedom in as many minutes, and plunged back down into the watery depths below, only this time I’d been merely going about filling the bowl with all manners of McDonald’s incrusted bodily waste.
Now as far as I was concerned, I had a number of choices: 1. I could throw in the towel and walk away that instant (but on the other hand it would mean having to shell out for a new one and if there was still a chance of salvaging it; and besides, I still had to wipe and didn’t fancy spending the rest of the night with a funny limp); 2. I could flush the toilet and hope that the battery acts like a ‘floater’ (a risk I could have taken, but on the other hand it may well have resulted in Corpus Christie’s aging sewerage system bursting under the pressure, and unleashing a torrent upon the wedding party); or 3. like a man (albeit a very smelly man), I could plunge my hand back into the somewhat murkier depths below, and recover the want away piece of hardware there and then.
And so of course like anyone worth his salt, I went for option 3.
I can guess the look you’ve got on your face right is probably the closest it’s ever come to resemble complete and utter disgust and repulsion, as I describe in intricate detail how I waded through my own faeces in retrieval of my phone battery, resembling something very much like that scene out of Trainspotting, where Renton pushes his body head first down the toilet system. Are you seriously telling me you wouldn’t have done the same? These things don,’t come cheap y’know.
And then, let me assure you, I scrubbed and washed my hands, arms, face, neck, upper body, legs, feet, and genitalia, like I’ve never scrubbed and washed before. It was a credit to the good people of Corpus Christie that they had stocked such an usually generous amount of soaps, hand washes, balms, shampoos, conditioners, shower gels, all over body wash, bubble baths, swarfegers, and paint stripers; almost as if they had been expecting such a thing to happen. Could it be that it hadn’t just been me? That there was an unholy curse upon the college, resulting in many an undergraduate, post-grad, lecturer or tourist, to lose their phones in a similar manner?
No. Didn’t think so.
Well after all that, did my phone still work? No it bloody didn’t. All it would do was making a sickly whirring sound. My phone had become very ill indeed. And, so from that point, I resigned myself to buying a new phone the very next day.
But, I could dwell on my phone no more. I had more deejaying to do, and an expectant crowd all rooting for my return. First tune I put on? ‘A Town Called Malice’ by the Jam, and the dance floor emptied instantly. Philistines!
Thanks must go to all those people who joined me in McDonald’s the next day to attempt a salvage job on the phone, as it was taken apart piece by piece, stripped down to its basic components. Circuits were dried; fluff was removed (as were these ominous strands of long curly hair, the origin of which I don’t particularly want to know, but can probably guess anyway).
I opted not to enlighten the participants of the full horror of what I had endured the night before in the toilet, merely stopping at the ‘phone fell down the toilet once and only once’, story. To be honest, I doubt they would have wanted to have been anywhere near me, if I had told them the full horror, and besides, bringing a phone back from the dead’s more than a one man job now.
To tell the truth, my phone did start working again, but the trauma had been too much, and rather than take the risk of being branded “Mr Stinky Phone” for the rest of my life, I fled in the direction of the nearest Phones4U in search of a replacement. Of course, I didn’t want any of this contract nonsense. No, another Orange Pay As You Go would do me fine. Little did I know that only a few months later, I would find myself in the situation of living in a house with no mobile msignal and no landline, thus resigning myself to the plight of having to make all my calls from the corner of the garden, and in doing so, attracting the unwelcome attention of the local Neighbourhood Watch Association.
And so I find myself throwing my lot in with ‘them’, bloody Man Utd. Not that selling your soul to the devil hasn’t been without its merits. After all, for the first time in my life, I can actually have something approaching a conversation on the phone. Now, all I need to do is find someone to have a conversation with.
Note. Since the publication of this article, Vodafone have announced they are to sever all ties with Manchester United, instead focusing on their sponsorship deal with the Champions League. Do I feel elated? No I bloody don’t. As since purchasing my new mobile, I’ve come to realise that the phone is in fact manufactured by Samsung, who are now the shirt sponsor of Chelsea Football Club. Now, these are the reasons why I hate Chelsea…………
Posted by levers
at 6:24 PM GMT
Updated: Thursday, 1 December 2005 7:41 PM GMT
Posted by levers
at 12:31 PM GMT
