I Love Climbing Into the DJ Booth When I'm Drunk, Please Don't Judge Me

My name is Claire and I'm a DJ booth whore. After one too many warm vodkas served out of paper cups, I'm the first to clamber up there and look upon the people — my people — raving at my feet. All hail me and my inebriated footwork. When I'm stood next to the unsuspecting DJ, thrusting my hands to the heavens, stood loftily above my fellow clubbers, like some Jaeger-gummed messiah, I truly believe that I'm the chosen one. I'm leading you all to a 4/4 utopia.

In the cold light of a sober day, my sensible self tells me that I truly am the worst kind of person: the dickhead in the club. The only people who come close to joining me in pariah-dom are the cretins lurking at the back, nodding their heads to a beat that's not actually there, a lager top clutched in their sweaty paws, creeping on girls under the pretence of being really 'into the vibe.' Fuck those guys. The thing is, as the sun sets, I submit to a seemingly irresistible urge to go against my better nature. I begin to change. I become the girl with the wild grin, the bushy hair and the flailing arms, like some sort of Kingsland Road werewolf.

If you see me out and about please don't think I'm there to chirpse the DJ. By that point I'm normally too pissed to form any legible words at all, let alone attempt to successfully chat anyone up. I am, however — and I'm certain of this — undoubtedly the happiest girl in the club and, well, if you've got moves as good as mine after six double vodkas you'd think it was an offence to not show them off too.

I know everyone wants to be doing what I'm doing so, as self-confessed queen of the booth invaders, I thought I'd stumble the clubbing equivalent of Mount Sinai, returning with my commandments, etched on the back of the ten pack of Marlboro I bought on the way up. I know, Moses came back with ten, but y'know, Moses didn't go to The Nest on a Friday and Birthdays on Saturday. Neither did DJ Harvey.

THOU SHALT NOT BE A MESS

If you look like you're going to drop that cup of flat Carling over the DJs equipment you've got less chance of getting in than Ed Miliband. While sticky floors are an inevitability in any club, sticky Pioneers are a total death sentence.

THOU SHALT NOT MAKE EYES AT THE DJ

However alluring you may mistakenly think you're being, you'll likely just be pissing off someone's boyfriend, girlfriend, or the rest of Moodymann's hareem. At best you'll be shot aggressive looks and refused a pass, at worst you'll be thrown out of the booth like Jazzy Jeff getting dunked by an angry Uncle Phil.

THOU SHALT NOT PISS OFF EVERYONE ELSE

As you make your way to the a long gulp on the holy grail of booth-based happiness, don't leave a sea of aggression behind you. Primarily because ideally you want your transition from run-of-the-mill raver to booth price/princess to be a smooth one (elbow shaped bruises and burn marks from death stares won't help your cause much) and secondly because there's no way any half-decent DJ is going to want a blundering dickhead stood behind them for a few hours trying to steal a few sips of their freebies.

THOU SHALT ACTUALLY HAVE TASTE

Not to sound like a total beard-scratcher here, but nobody likes the person who pretends to be some kind of EDM expert but has actually just got a Guetta track stuffed next to the Lion King soundtrack and The Very Best of Queen on their iPhone. Go to the club to have a good time and, hey, you might hear something you never knew you wanted to like. But please, please, stay out of the booth if you only get a boner when "Sexy Bitch" drops.

THOU SHALT QUENCH THE DJ'S THIRST

If you don't bestow a gift to the god of the booth they've got every right to gently plonk you back in the hordes you sought to escape. Have some manners and buy the DJ a pint you tight arsehole.

THOU SHALT ASSESS THE BEST ROUTE

The path to glory is paved with obstacles and only the chosen few will make it through unscathed. You've got to be prepared to leap over beer puddles, dodge sweaty blokes in singlets, duck the whipped back and forth ponytails of exuberant dancefloor divas, and finally summon up the energy to hoist your bodyweight into the booth itself. Stairs are for wusses.

When Claire's not standing uncomfortably close to DJs, she's on Twitter.