... you, driver-cum-DJ, with your window completely rolled down and your music blasting out, invading everyone’s territory. Now that we’re approaching summer (not that you’d know, what with the couple of polar bears I recently ran into on my way to work and the penguin directing the traffic near my digs, this is neither spring nor early summer, but a-guest-that-overstayed-its-welcome winter) you have wasted no time in letting us know, fellow drivers, pedestrians and those eternal scapegoats of the road, cyclists, what your musical preferences are. And how they differ to almost everybody else’s.
You’re easily recognisable in your shiny, black or silver, convertible BMW, Porsche or such-like, imagining that you’re cruising down Miami Beach, when you really are going up Ally Pally and you can’t go faster than third gear. But that doesn’t matter, because you have your music. Did I say music? No, make that MUSIC!!! Because that’s how it feels to us poor, mere mortals, as we succumb to your 420W output power. For your, Mr DJ, car entertainment is not limited to your own boundaries. No, your playlist is Julius Caesar, Bonaparte and Saladin all rolled into one, conquering street after street, bloc after bloc, listener (willing or not) after listener. Occasionally I have pulled up next to you at a set of traffic lights, only to see your smile (hmmm... no, smirk, rather) drawn across your face, like a Picasso painting. Often the words by the famous artist come to mind: “Every act of creation is first of all an act of destruction”. And you know what? When you create that playlist with Nicki Minaj and co.? You are destroying good taste. The fact that the decibel levels coming out of your car are enough to propel Felix Baumgartner twenty-four miles back up into space are beside the point to you. No, the only thing in which you’re interested is in having lyrics like the ones below belting out of your motor to all and sundry:
P-p-p-p punch line Queen, no boxer though/Might pull up in a Porsche, no boxster though/Tell a hater,"Yo, don't you got cocks to blow?"/Tell 'em Kangaroo Nick, I'll box a ho/Shoulda shoulda said I got 5 in a possible/Don't go against Nicki, Impossible/I done came through with my wrist on Popsicle/Man these hoes couldn't ball with a Testicle/Nigga-nigga-nigga-nigga
Apologies to my readers. That’s not the kind of language I use in real life, or the type you’re used to on my blog. But, if we’re going talk about Mr DJ, evidence is needed. I would trade summer for autumn and winter (despite my dislike for the latter) just to keep Mr DJ at bay. Alas, with the first rays of spring sunshine, he (usually a “he”, although Lady DJ is quite common) is out in a flash, one hand on the wheel, windows rolled down and music – dare we call it that? – blasting out from his car stereo. Come back, Napoleon, all is forgotten, including your hand in your shirt. Anything is preferable to Mr DJ and his playlist.
Next Post: “Sunday Mornings: Coffee, Reflections and Music”, to be published on Sunday 26th May at 10am (GMT)