The Secret DJ on taking his parents to a festival and his mum loving deep house

I had just received permission to carry him, when suddenly, neither of us were the oldest people there – because my mum and dad had arrived. Up until that day, neither of them had ever seen what I do. They were vaguely proud of me because they’d seen me on telly once, but they had no contact at all with my world – which was best for all concerned. There was no getting away from it now, though, as the festival was about five miles from their house and they’d spent all week proudly pointing out my name on the posters to their neighbours in the village. Now, my mum is a cancer survivor, about twice as old as the House Legend. She steamed past us straight to the bar while I held him in my arms like a baby. She is from the countryside.

Next time I saw her I was on stage and she was at the front among all the 19-year-old kids, pissed out of her head on my rider and shouting random epithets like “That’s my son! He’s a DJ!” and “Have you ever had cancer?” My dad, meanwhile, was standing next to me on stage, the grand onion in the custard. Every now and then I’d look over to him and give him an enquiring thumbs-up. He’d reply by taking his fingers out of his ears as fast as a gunslinger, replying with a thumbs-up of his own and then whipping them back in his listening-holes as fast as I’ve ever seen him move.

So there I was, performing in front of thousands, my mum moshing at the front, my dad standing next to me on stage with his fingers in his ears while a certified House Legend pissed himself laughing at me, in front of everyone, for the next two hours. It was almost as bad as the time I was playing the Space Terrace in the morning while the resident stood waiting for me to finish, inches away from me, just out of bed, yawning prodigiously, eating an egg sandwich and reading The Sun. Maybe this look was worse. Hard to say.

When we finally got far enough away from the noise for my dad to be able to hear, the House Legend asked him what he thought of it all – being new to festivals and that.

My dad thought hard for a while before he spoke, something no-one does any more.

“Well… it’s a bit like World War One.”

“Eh?”

“Lots of noise, petrified underage kids covered in mud that all need sending home, and…

“And what?”

“…I think I’ve got trench foot.”

“I love deep house!” shouted my mum.