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Why the Hell Do You Bother Taking Photos of DJs in Clubs?

We've unpacked every possible reason as to why anyone bothers whipping their phone out for shot after terrible shot of a DJ in the booth.

A tweet has been brought to our attention. A tweet that made us think. This was that tweet.

You know how it is when you go to a club. You're excited. You're up for a big one. A large one. A massive one. You and the crew are in the venue, drinks in hands, phones in pockets. You're ready. This is the Saturday night you've been waiting for since Sunday morning. The place is packed. It's heaving. The atmosphere's bordering on electric. The warm up DJs doing his or her thing. You nip out for odd blast of nicotine tainted fresh air. This is the life, you think to yourself, stumbling back onto the dancefloor, waving through people, treading on toes. This is the life. Here comes the DJ you've paid to see. This is it. You can see them in the booth. You see them whip a USB out. Here we go. Here we fucking go. You find yourself pushing further and further forward. Your friends have vanished. This is it. The warm up DJ signals that this'll be their last song. Your stomach's doing backflips and arrowsprings. This is it. Here we go. Here we go. This is it. You get your phone out. You open the camera application. You're there, pretty much nose to nose with the DJ. He looks up. He's startled. Bemused. Confused. Anxious. Vexed. You click click click away. You've caught him. He's there. Forever. He'll never leave your camera reel. Even when you've got to free up some space on your phone you won't delete him. Bye bye mum. Fuck off grandad. Sayonara graduating sister. You hotfoot back through the crowd, find your mates. You show them the spoils of victory. "Look," you say. "Look! Look! Look!" They look. You look. You look up the DJ and back down at him. He's there. He's there too.


You wake up the next day and he's still there. Preserved in aspic and plastic forever. A memory that'll last longer than any memory could. A memory etched into reality via a fucking terrible, blurry, mistimed, too close photo of a fucking bloke playing records.

As Jackmaster rightly pointed out this is pretty fucking annoying, so why do you do it? Why does anyone do it? Let's try and work out why anyone ever thinks that taking a photo of a DJ on their phone in a club is worth doing.


Things happen in life. All the time. Things are constantly happening in life. Most things in life don't need to be preserved and looked back on. Most things in life should just dissipate as soon as they stop happening. A bag splitting outside a supermarket. Not having your Oyster card on you when you thought you had your Oyster card on you and you're about to get onto a bus and it turns out you don't have your Oyster card on you like you thought you did. Starting a novel that isn't very good. These are things that should just happen and then stop happening. They don't need recording. In a nightclub, it's not that uncommon that DJs will be present. If you are there you will see the DJ playing records. This is not an exciting thing to witness visually. It does not need recording in any viewable form unless you're the kind of absolute fucking fanny who takes photos of their gammon steaks and throws them on Instagram. There is a direct correlation between gammon fans and the kind of boneheaded idiot who takes photos of DJs in clubs on their phones, by the way.



Sorry to break it to you here pal, but yep, you and your mates are all total idiots. Total idiots. All of you. Just idiots. Complete idiots. The lot of you.


"Ah mate I had a wicked weekend yeah man yeah it was fucking sick actually yeah so on Friday I went to the pub with the boys yeah just the Spoons down the road yeah not bad actually in there quite a few regulars and old pissheads you know the drill yeah and I had about four or five pints just a standard Friday night yeah and just a laugh some good banter you know how it goes when you've got the boys together down by the quiz machine on a Friday night yeah exactly always a good laugh anyway had those beers and then we want back to my mate's for a few games on FIFA ah yeah it was wicked actually scored a few sick goals right always play as Arsenal innit always good laugh anyway went home after that got the nightbus cos Uber was on a surge so I got the bus took a while though still good laugh some right states on there right yeah always the same innit on the nightbus you know how it goes Saturday morning got up did a few household bits and had a naughty fry up two eggs two sausage beans two hash browns tomatoes bit of black pudding nah no bacon though haven't you read that bacon gives you cancer anyway mate so yeah watched the footy met up with the lads again down Spoons had a few pints and a cocktail nothing wrong with a jug of Cheeky V is there mate nah nothing wrong with that at all and yeah we got on the bus steaming mate but we got in the club and Jackmaster was playing right he was fucking amazing to be honest with you just fucking wicked actually mate yeah he's a fucking great DJ amazing DJ wicked DJ and I took a few photos of him actually do you wanna see them?"



Alright, not to come on too much like one of those dudes who uses Twitter primarily to talk about "politics" or "social issues" rather than just for looking up what Melinda Messenger or Dean Ashton had for dinner on this day in 2011* but DJing is a job and jobs usually come with workplaces and the boundaries of the workplace have to be respected. Imagine if Ben UFO rocked up to the insurance firm you work at in Norwich and started assaulting you with the CLICK-CLICK-CLICK of a new HTC phone as you tried to get on with scratching your balls and writing a few emails in peace? You'd be horrified. Outraged. You'd be indignant with rage. Apoplectic with it. You'd call security and have Ben UFO carted off. Wouldn't you? Yeah you would. Don't try and deny it. You would. It'd be all over the internet by 4pm that day and you'd feel like a hero down the pub that evening. So why would you go to his place of work and do that to him? Why? Stop cowering and start answering.


No, mate. Not really.

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