The Raft-Up DJ

Raft Up: the day parents unwillingly donate their beloved boats for their children’s hedonistic floating Instagram-fest off Rottnest Island. An aquatic wonderland of connected boats, fake tits, arm-sleeve tattoos and most importantly, Perth’s premier amateur DJ’s who are going to whip off their shirts, pose for fish-lens photos and rinse that party like it was an old boys grundies after casserole night at the RSL.

Dimitri’s DJ resume reads like a depressing document of the half-arsed pursuit of a difficult skill. “Self taught” and armed with a shit-ton of pirated tracks he is ready to mix up all his favourite tunes on his CD Jacks. “Vinyls’ dead bruh”, shut up Dimitri - the ghost of Narccisist on Barrack would be rolling in his grave. #RIPNarccisist

Dimitri heads to Freo in a pair of tanning shorts, white singlet, Brazil flag Havaianas and his full DJ kit. His Aquinas mates welcome him, “Raft Up Brah!” Dimitri slaps hands and boards the vessel with a straight back: like an amateur musical God without a flock to bestow any higher props than, “we needed some cunt to do it”. Dimitri is that cunt. Oh yes he is.

The Aquinas lads vessel hooks up with other PSA boats in the designated areas. Everyone is slapping Banana Boat on and cheersing ice cold bevvies while perving on the amazing collection of Creatine-dicks and Chadwick rejects as far as the eye can see. Not Dimitri. He is setting up his sound-station on the cabin of his mates boat. He sweats, cusses and exhales in frustration, but eventually he drops his first tune.

He warms up the crowd with DJ Sammy’s Boys of Summer Remix. He pretends to utilise the fader correctly while the song slams its own weak drops. Those are the moments where he puts both hands in the air, first pumps and then pretends to concentrate on the mixer. They should call him DJ WinAmp.

Dimitri really wants a new beer, but he can't leave his station: a crew of Christ Church rinsers have boarded his vessel. He can't risk a mutiny and have his Jacks commandeered by some Trap Lord. Not on Dimitri’s watch. A large busted girl approaches Dimitri to check he is OK. He puts his finger up to stop her talking, Roni Size’s Brown Paper Bag is playing and he needs to pretend to affect the drop at the right moment.

The entire boat is chomping their faces off on pingas and Dimitri hasn’t so much as cracked a third beer. Who knows, Andy C might be on the next boat and discover him. There is no time to party when you are a shirtless Raft Up DJ.

Eventually, an AFL player boards the vessel and insists he is given a go at the music. Dimitri stews in his own juices while angrily telling a Motorway promo model about his upcoming gig at Shape. The AFL player drops Darude Sandstorm to the overwhelming cheer of the drugged up revelers.

Dimitri is defeated by the Y2K superhit.