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Diary Of A Chronic Booth Blagger

Originally published on Pulse.

Dear diary,

Today marks two years since I discovered techno and one year since I discovered how much better it sounds from the DJ booth.

Sure, I was a regular punter — jostling away in the trenches with nowhere to stash my bag and no equipment to rest my drink on. It was OK, but I always had this feeling like I didn’t quite belong; like I was destined for something greater. Something slightly higher up perhaps, with three low walls and a table, and lot less room to dance, but a lot more people to see you do it.

One night as I brushed off loser-without-a-record-deal-number-312, I thought to myself, 'if i’m going to get tequila spilt down my cleavage by some wasted guy, it might as well be by Ricardo Villalobos fighting his way out of a K-hole, and there might as well be someone around to photograph it'. So I set my sights on the DJ booth.

Once you booth you really can’t go back. It's like when you get in an Uber and the driver offers you Mentos and you know you’ll never really enjoy an Uber ride again unless there’s candy. Plus, it’s just not safe out there on the dance floor — any old creep could try to cop a feel. At least if you’re getting groped by someone in the booth, you know they’ve got the bags to back it up.

Anyway, tonight I’m off to breach booth at a new venue. I’ve stepped up my sideboob game for the occasion and I’m expecting results.

Dear diary,

Huge party coming up this weekend and I need to be looking my best. I’ve been on booth-diet all week, which only allows what you can ingest through a straw, like vodka lime sodas, or cocaine. The look I’m going for is eight-day-bender levels of emaciated chic: skin, bone and LittleBlackDress. 

I want to lose so much weight this week I make my mother cry.

Dear diary,

I always tell my girls, there’s no need to brag about our lifestyle, nobody wants to hear that. Just let your social media account tell the story of your success. For example, why tell everyone about that time you were in the booth, when you can just post a photo from an angle those dancefloor derps could never get to?

If you’ve got a picture of yourself with Richie Hawtin, caption with something modest, like, “oops, having such a bad hair day” which has the advantage of subtly drawing attention to your perfectly tousled waves at the same time as playing down Richie’s presence, because you’re so techno it’s just a regular part of your life.

No need to shout from the rooftops that you know the folks running that party. Just make sure you thank them the day after by writing a public facebook status and tagging them in it. If you can throw in a reference to how much tequila you shared, all the better. You’ll soon see there’s just no need to brag whatsoever.

Play it cool ladies, just another day with Richie. 

Dear diary,

Another successful social climbing session!

I tactically positioned myself early and put my game face on — which is that sultry pouted-lip-and-furrowed-brow look you make as if you’ve started to say the word ‘prune’ but forgot what you were doing halfway through. It says, “I’m sexy, but I also think about things”. Nina Kraviz has it down. Then I rocked my shoulders to the beat in a way that said, “sure I like music, but what I really like is sex.”

Eventually I caught the eye of someone boothside, and once that happens it’s always just a matter of patience and elbows until — oops! — you’re standing right next to them in prime booth location. I didn’t mess around once inside the hot-zone either, I kept my eye on the prize (the DJ’s elbow), muscled my way to the front and stood alongside the decks, showing him how much I vibed off the filler tech house track he was spinning. Then I thought the crowd should probably be vibing as much as I was, so I raised my hands to the roof and showed those peasants how to lift it. Once I was sure everyone had seen me and some photos had been taken, I decided to stay on. Nobody had given me any signals that I was welcome there but I think they were just intimidated because I was so comfortable in the presence of vinyl.

Dear diary,

That awkward moment when you’re chatting to this DJ for like half an hour then realise he is the lighting guy. #halfanhourofmylifei’llnevergetback

Yeah that guy on the right? Not the DJ. 

Dear diary, 

There’s just this incredibly spiritual moment of connection when the DJ drops a bomb and you look down from your position of privilege at the crowd enjoying themselves and they’re all staring in your direction with their hands in the air and you realised that you, in some small, insignificant, ultra-sexy way, had a part in making this happen.

And you know you shouldn’t, but you just can’t help yourself squeezing out a “#blessed” insta post with a picture of the DJ’s booze rider on ice, because this truly must be what techno is all about.

Sorry, too deep? I get philosophical when my iPhone runs out of battery.

Dear diary,

I think Kate Hudson said it first in the ‘70s, but I always tell the girls: if you never take it seriously you’ll never get hurt, if you never get hurt you’ll always have fun and if you ever get lonely, just go to the box in the cupboard and roll around in your collection of old wristbands.


I’m going to Ibiza to chase my villa party dreams; I may not sleep, write or blink for some time.