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Celebrity DJs

So picture the scene: you're in a packed club, sweat is dripping from the ceilings, and your just waiting, waiting for that moment, that drop to kick in that'll make your weekend, your month, your year worth it.... You're waiting... Waiting... STILL WAITING....

KLANNNGGGG!

The mix is out of time, the track is about two years old (at least), and all of the euphoria has been drained from your veins. You look up to the DJ, hoping to see an apologetic glance at the very least. But all you can see is some idiot waving his or her arms around, surrounded by a gaggle of perma-tanned girls clutching alligator skin purses, wearing sunglasses indoors. And then you realise where you recognise the DJ from. And it's not from the front cover of Mixmag or DJmag. That's right, it's a celebrity DJ.

It's the latest craze sweeping clubland, and it's an uncomfortable sign of the desperation some clubs will go to get people through the door during the heaviest recession in recent memory. We've always had our suspicions that for some people, the tunes weren't important enough, now we know for sure.

With celebrity DJs ranging from the overrated (Mat Horne) to the just plain odd (Naboo from The Mighty Boosh, Preston, Agyness Deyn), these DJs are increasingly becoming the choice de jour of desperate promoters who are scared of losing punters, who is willing to take a stand against this development? Nobody seemingly. It seems with the relentless tide of reality TV shows masquerading as singing contests, wildlife shows, cookery and even butchery (seriously, have you seen Britiain's Best Butcher, hosted by ‘people's pal' George Lamb?) starting to wane in popularity, these omni-dimensional talent vacuums are now turning their attentions to ruining our nights out rather than our nights in. When will they stop? Can they be stopped? What should we do to stop them? Are there any good examples we've missed out (Kate Lawler anybody)?

I know what I'd like to see - an island, made up totally of celebrities. They can have their own corner shop, their own post office and even their own Budgens. But the crowning achievement of this little island paradise would be the massive nightclub, Electric Whispers, that sits atop a large hill overlooking the island. Every night, a different celebrity would spin records for other celebrities, whilst spectators would flock from miles around to see Preston spin the latest track by those monsters of modern house, The Specials. He could then be followed on by Mat Horne and his erstwhile rotund comedy partner James Corden, dropping hot new platters such as ‘I Predict A Riot' by Kaiser Chiefs and ‘Supermassive Black Hole' by Muse whilst Corden robot walks his way into obscurity. Again.

But do you want to know what the best thing about this island would be? None of them could leave. They would all be stuck on there, stuck on live TV 24 hours a day, forced to live out their lives for the benefit of those who want to watch them, whilst the rest of us can ignore them into oblivion. Eventually, everybody would stop watching, and they'd have to resort to some kind of scary cannibalistic rituals to get the public back again, ultimately culminating in the live sacrifice of Derek Acorah (bet he didn't see that one coming) in a large wicker copy of the Big Brother diary room. But I for one wouldn't be watching - I'd be out and about enjoying my life. Care to join me?

Courtesy of Ministry of Sound