Terry Pratchett - Turntables of the Night

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Turntables of the Night

by Terry Pratchett

Look, constable, what I don't understand is, surely he

wouldn't be into blues? Because that was Wayne's life for

you. A blues single. I mean, if people were music, Wayne

would be like one of those scratchy old numbers, you

know, re-recorded about a hundred times from the

original phonograph cylinder or whatever, with some

old guy with a name like Deaf Orange Robinson standing

knee-deep in the Mississippi and moaning through his

nose. You'd think he'd be more into Heavy Metal or Meatloaf

or someone. But I suppose he's into everyone. Eventually.

What? Yeah. That's my van, with Hellfire Disco

painted on it. Wayne can't drive, you see. He's just

not interested in anything like that. I remember when

I got my first car and we went on holiday, and I did the

driving and, okay, also the repairing, and Wayne worked

the radio trying to keep the pirate stations tuned in. He

didn't really care where we went as long as it was on high

ground and he could get Caroline or London or whatever,

I didn't care where we went so long as we went.

I was always more into cars than music. Until now, I

think. I don't think I want to drive a car again. I'd keep

wondering who'd suddenly turn up in the passenger

seat . .

Sorry. So. Yeah. The disco. Well, the deal was that I

supplied the van, we split the cost of the gear, and Wayne

supplied the records. It was really my idea. I mean, it

seemed a pretty good bet. Wayne lives with his mum but

they're down to two rooms now because of his record

collection. Lots of people collect records, but I reckon

Wayne really wants - wanted - to own every one that was

ever made. His idea of a fun outing was going to some old

store in some old town and rummaging through the

stock and coming out with something by someone with

a name like Sid Sputnik and the Spacemen, but the thing

was, the funny thing was, you'd get back to his room and

he'd go to a shelf and push all the record aside and

there'd be this neat brown envelope with the name and

date on it and everything - waiting.

Or he'd get me to drive him all the way to Preston or

somewhere to find some guy who's a self-employed

plumber now but maybe back in 1961 called himself

Ronnie Sequin and made it to number 152 in the charts,

just to see if he'd got a spare copy of his one record which

was really so naff you couldn't even find it in the

specialist stores.

Wayne was the kind of collector who couldn't bear a

hole in his collection It was almost religious, really. He

could out-talk John Peel in any case, but the records he

really knew about were the ones he hadn't got. He'd wait

years to get some practically demo disc from a punk

group who probably died of safety-pin tetanus, but by

the time he got his hands on it he'd be able to recite

everything down to the name of the cleaning lady

who scrubbed out the studio afterwards. Like I said, a

collector.

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Terry Pratchett - Turntables of the Night

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