I'm the DJ's Missus.

My fiance is a DJ. A Disc Jockey. Look at me when I'm saying this because there is not a hint of pride in it. None of the Pop My Collar and Shake My Tail Feather going on here. It is his career, his passion and I do get the high that he gets when he is up there in front of his audience mixing his tunes and making his beats. That is him up there, separate from me. I appreciate that as his outlet. You will never find me on that fucking stage next to him beaming going Yeaaaaaaah this is my man and he is the awesomest and stuff because he is a DJ and when we go home tonight I will suck him off like there is no tomorrow. See, I don't get that whole thing. Nine times out of ten when I am seen doing that, Jaz knows that I am clearly just taking the fucking piss because A) I don't do Techno, House, Dubstep, Jungle, Drum n Bass, B) He knows I will suck him off like there is no tomorrow nonetheless and C) He knows that I think most DJs with their gangsta swagga are Twats. This is England where even the fucking sewage cleaner moonlights as a freelance DJ at night.

Just like I will turn up at his gigs, try to get smashed off my face and be there just for him. I don't care about the girls turning up with their sky-high heels and minis and try to suck off any pseudo-celebrity in sight. They have their issues and their teenage naivete. Let them eat cake. There is something about that glow on his face when he is doing what he loves and that is what I am there for. Just to see that smile when he gets off the stage and smothers me in his kisses that telepathically translates to Tell Me I Was Fucking Awesome and I dutifully say You were amazing, Baby. I don't see myself hanging on to him throughout an entire event just to pile-drive that message that he was with me. If he doesn't know that he was with me already and he would like to accept the offer of seven girls to fellate him behind the decks then he surely will have something coming. If other girls would like to take my place then go on then, you can pick up where I left off with his dirty laundry and bear him making animal-crying-sounds when you tuck into your meat dish and him into his vegetables. You can put up with his tardiness, his slow-as-fuck reaction time and his tendencies to take the piss when you are on the brink of an emotional melt-down.

So really, just like he lets me get on with my whatever while I sit here on the computer, be it blogging, Photoshopping, watching Thundercats on Youtube or head-banging. That is when he gets to see me just be and he comes in and drop a kiss on my head saying 'Weet wooh, baby, 600 hits on your ranting space eh? You're like, the fucking awesomeriest and stuff and all that, okay?' and gets on with his life.

I am not trying top let people know that we are the most perfect couple in the world. I just want them to stop looking me like I just inserted a cacti into my secret bits when I say 'I don't know. I know fuck all about DnB and Dubstep. I don't really give a shit, to be honest.' and stop asking me WHY!? BUT YOU ARE WITH JAZ! As though I was blaspheming. Why won't you let your boyfriend poke you up the arse? Because you don't like it, do you? See, same principle. Twats.

Of course I want him to succeed and be happy because if he succeeds and earn lots of money AND he is happy, he would not mind me asking him to build me a fucking boudoir with Damask wallpapers, would he? AND, all the Giuseppe Zanotti's in my own walk-in, velvet-lined drawers filled with Mauboussins and a massive larder filled with biscuits.

So really, don't mind me head-bopping in the corner. I was gyrating to Queen that was on my iPod, actually. But yes, Jaz was awesome, wasn't he? I'd do him.

Yeah? Fuck Off.