Doctor Muck’s Holiday Blag Thursday 16th June 2011

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Doctor Muck’s Holiday Blag Thursday 16th June 2011

Thursday 16th June 

I’ve been picking out tunes to play tomorrow night down at the Palace. I’ve brought a big case of CDs with me, a mix of mostly progressive and uplifting stuff. What I end up actually playing depends if anyone turns up there tomorrow, but I’ll be kicking off with some dreamy breaks and tech house, with a few old skool classics waiting in the wings such as Gat Decor ‘Passion’ -a tune that I’ve been wanting to drop again for ages.   

I’ve got some flyers and CDs left, so intend to take a wander on the beach tomorrow to chat to a few people and see if I can get some of them to come down to the Palace in the evening. Mrs Muck is still worried about the whole set up down there, and is fretting about me drawing unwanted attention to it, in case I enrage the wrath of ‘the firm’. I tried telling her that no club owner would be unhappy with punters streaming through the door, whether it’s a front or a genuine establishment, and I’ll be doing my best to get people down there to hear my set- even if according to Mrs Muck it could turn out to be the last one I ever play. 

Handy told her not to worry, and that if I get whacked he knows a host of far better replacements who would be only to glad to step in to my shoes and take care of a grieving widow. 

“I know some proper DJs dear, and some of them don’t even need to stand on a box to reach the decks.” he went on, uncaring that I was standing right next to him at the time.

“I’d have a go” said Sandy, winking at Mrs Muck, to which Handy replied

“It’s about time someone did”

Seriously, who needs enemies with friends like these…?

The club is meant to be open again tonight, being Thursday, so after our barbie we’ll trundle down there to see what’s going on, and check it’s still on for tomorrow night. 

Last night I left a CD and flyers at another bar in town, called the Iguana. Each time we’ve passed they have been playing soulful Latin music, and frequently have couples swaying to the beat together in the space in front of the bar which doubles as a makeshift dancefloor. The bar is decorated in a chic combination of white throughout and neon backlights, and exudes an air of class that some of the other establishments in town sorely lack. Far too classy for the likes of us I hear you cry, but we ventured in nonetheless last night, and I had possibly the best mojito I’ve ever tasted, while casting an interested eye over a pair of CDJs set up in the corner of the bar.

Despite being pretty sure that my tunes would be too pacey for this place I got chatting with the manager and asked him whether the bar had an exclusively Latin music policy throughout the week. He told me that it’s more housey at weekends so I asked if I could leave a CD to see what he thinks. He readily agreed and told me to pop back in in the next couple of days. The way I see it is- don’t ask, don’t get. Maybe you’ll ask and still not get, but at least you know. It’s a policy I adhere to in all areas of my life, not just music, and you’d be surprised just how much success a simple question can bring… A few slaps in the face too, but that’s just an occupational hazard…

This week we’ve done absolutely nothing except laze on the beach all day and either eat out in the evenings, or stoke up the barbie. I don’t think I realised just how run down I’ve been and how much I needed a holiday. It’s taken over a week, but I can finally feel the stress slipping away from me, like a snake shedding it’s skin. We had talked of hiring a car and exploring the surrounding area this week, but have decided that sometimes doing absolutely nothing is the best possible medicine, so were once again sprawled under the sun on Dona Ana beach, sipping Lipton iced tea, which I’m developing a growing addiction to. For once the rest of the crew aren’t bickering, and I’ve been enjoying relaxing, closing my eyes and letting the trance on my iPod take me away. 

I should have known it wouldn’t last long of course.

A particularly noisy and irritating bunch of American teenagers invaded the beach today, and were swigging beer and getting progressively more obnoxious as the day went on. They were throwing around an American football which landed perilously close to our towels on several occasions. Then, as I looked on, the grossly overweight kid who’d been acting as quarterback attempted a wildly over-ambitious throw, which from the moment it left his chubby little hand had disaster written all over it. The ball looped towards us as if in slow motion, and as I followed it with worried eyes it landed smack bang on Handy, scattering his factor zero Hawaiian Tropic, make up bag, and various drinks, books and creams everywhere with a sickening thud.

There was a short pause, as if no one could quite believe what had just happened and I closed my eyes ready for the inevitable trouble. Thank God Jamal isn’t here (he’s still hungover after finding the owner of the kebab shop in town had some moonshine camel sperm stashed away). His kebab knife is even sharper than Handy’s tongue, which as we all know is a weapon of mass destruction in itself.

Handy jumped up, stock upright, looking around with a scowl on his face to see who had dared disturb him in such a violent way. 

His body was taught with anger, the teak coloured, sun damaged skin rippling under his snow white Speedos, which as always were a size too small and sported a little pink bow at the front, above a monogrammed ‘H’ in fancy italics.  

His eyes scanned around and quickly saw the culprit, whose face had dropped and was holding up his porky hands in apology. 

“Oi! Spring Break! Come here at once!” ordered Handy.

“Shall I get the gun?” asked Sandy, his hand twitching.

“No dear, I can deal with this myself” replied Handy, who turned back to the unfortunate lad and clicked his fingers.

“I meant now, not tomorrow Uncle Spam”

Some of the other American lads called over to lay off him, as it was only an accident, to which they got a “Yank me, Yankees” from Handy and a raised middle finger. The group of lads erupted and started jeering aggressively.

Handy told us he’d had enough of this, and strutted off towards the group, only looking back to gesture to Sandy with his eyes to follow him. Sandy didn’t need telling twice and picked up an empty beer bottle and followed his brother quickly.

The group of teenagers’ faces changed from jeering and confident to crestfallen and silent as the boys approached. Sandy’s chest had puffed out like a pigeon in heat and he had a menacing look in his eye. I mean even more menacing than usual. He tapped the beer bottle ominously against his leg and although out of earshot by the time they’d reached the group, the faces and body language told the whole story. 

Handy was standing provocatively with his hands in his hips, the Speedos bulging dangerously close to the faces of the unfortunate members of the Americans who’d opted to stay sitting down. He appeared to be holding court, wagging his finger, and Sandy stood just behind him, eyeing the group with a snarl on his face. The group had fallen silent, and most of their eyes were looking at the floor, desperate not to make eye contact with either of the twins. Handy appeared to point to the poor lad who had thrown the football, and after what looked like some hopeless attempts at concilliatory gestures from the group led the poor boy away as Sandy stood watching the rest of them, eyebrows raised and bottle still tapping. 

Mystified, the rest of us looked at each other and shrugged as Sandy made his way back to us with a grin on his face. As he plumped himself back down on his sunlounger we looked at him enquiringly.

“Only turns out when we got nearer that Handy thought blubber boy was a bit of a dish, despite being a fat bastard, so he told the Yanks that he’s taking him for a drink to show there’s no hard feelings, but told me that he’s really taking him back to the apartment to show him the real meaning of ball control.”

Well, better than a punch up I suppose, although not necessarily for the poor boy. It may be a while before he throws a football again. Or sits down. He’ll certainly think twice before putting anything hard and inflated in his hand next time…

Well, the barbie is roaring and the wine flowing. I’m just about to put some tunes on and am in the mood to party.

A night at the Palace I think…

CLICK HERE TO READ ALL OF DOCTOR MUCK’S HOLIDAY BLAG

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