Chez Phil is a little bungalow in Willoughby, a quiet, middle-class suburb further up the North Shore from where I live. Most people seem to choose to live in Willoughby because it’s easy to get to, boasting its own exit only a short distance up the freeway from the Harbour Bridge. A feature I, conversely, appreciate because it makes it easier to escape from. But I was very grateful that Phil valued proximity over personality in his choice of suburbs.

The chief operations centre of the MobyDisc empire – MDHQ, as I like to call it – is a garage at the back of Phil’s house. Angela and I rendezvoused at its door. She’s in her late thirties, with shoulder-length brown hair in a somewhat severe cut, and I could tell she’d be even more at home in a suit than she was in the jeans and rugby jersey she’d thrown on to come and meet me.

We hit it off immediately, quickly discovering a common interest – jokes about Phil.

‘Here’s the key to the Batcave then,’ she said, handing over the padlock key so I could pull up the roller-door, which I did with an air of great ironic drama.

Phil’s garage was full of crates of CDs, and an extensive collection of decks, speakers, mixing desks, thick black cables and other paraphernalia, only around half of which was actually functional. I knew my way around the shed, but to the untrained eye, it looked utterly chaotic.

‘I’ve been offering to come in and reorganise the place for Phil,’ she said. ‘But he keeps saying he wouldn’t know where anything was.’

‘It is organised – it’s just that the system is secret men’s business,’ I said. ‘You should feel flattered you’re even allowed in here.’

‘Believe me, I’m very grateful.’

‘I’m the one who should be grateful, Angela. It’s so nice of you to rescue me like this.’

I grabbed a crate of CDs, knowing that whichever box I took, the contents would be the same carefully selected MobyDisc compilations that were Phil’s standard issue.

‘Not at all,’ she said. ‘He thinks the world of you, you know.’

I smiled. ‘He’s a pretty great guy. And by the way, the mDisc idea is really interesting, but I think I may have discovered a few problems with it tonight!’

‘Maybe the three of us should get together for dinner sometime and talk about it?’

‘That’d be great,’ I said.

As I was pulling the garage door down, Felicity rang, and she was far from happy.

‘Paul!’ she shouted. ‘What the hell were you thinking?’

‘What?’

‘The song you programmed – it’s appalling. Some song about a guy who likes big bottoms or something.’

My skin turned cold. Surely the ‘Fat Bottomed Girls’ debacle hadn’t been repeated?

‘What, by Queen? I didn’t program that.’

‘No – it’s a rap song. A highly offensive rap song. I swear the managing partner just looked daggers at me.’

And then I realised what had happened. Nige had figured out that he could just plug in his own iPod. And having had a few drinks, he couldn’t resist playing Sir Mix-A-Lot’s ode to the posterior of the African-American woman – ‘Baby’s Got Back’. To say the least, this was a problem.

‘Look, it’s not my fault. Nige must have programmed it in.’

‘Paul, there is no way this is not your fault. Get back here already.’

So I decided – in the interest of haste, of course – that it was my turn to hang up.

Angela was grinning at me. ‘Sounds like you’d better run.’

‘Yeah, just a little bit,’ I said. ‘Let’s do that dinner soon though.’

‘Absolutely,’ she said. ‘Ciao for now!’

Angela really had been very kind to me. So not only did I decide to let that phrase pass without a sarcastic comment, I even said, ‘Yeah, ciao for now!’ back.

I climbed into my car and rushed back to the city as quickly as my sedate Volvo could manage, knowing that every three minutes I took meant another song from Nige’s playlist. And although I had only a passing familiarity with the contents of his iPod, the fact he’d paid to see Bon Jovi in concert didn’t bode at all well.

Rushing down the freeway to the city, my mind played through the various scenarios. Perhaps Nige had simply emptied the dancefloor. And it’d be conspicuously empty, too – some kind of avant-garde arty tumbleweed would probably be rolling past.

But no, Nige was too popular for that. That Sir Mix-A-Lot track would have seen him surrounded by his mates, raucously rapping along with those few lyrics they remembered. The women would be sitting with their legs crossed and arms folded, talking about how awful the music was. And in the centre would be Felicity, furiously explaining how I’d let her down.

Or perhaps he’d followed up ‘Baby Got Back’ with something even more explicit, like NWA’s ‘Fuck Tha Police’, perhaps? In which case some curmudgeonly partner would have pulled the plug completely, leaving a silent, sullen room. But no matter which particular disaster scenario Nige had wreaked, I couldn’t get back there quickly enough.

I heard the singing well before I reached the building. The words were indistinct, the melody non-existent – but although musicologists might have disagreed, it was clearly singing. Had the PA been switched off and were the lawyers performing some kind of protest song? Had the whole of Morphett’s suddenly grown a conscience about their overinflated salaries, and started singing the ‘Internationale’? I began sprinting.

But I need not have worried. Nige, bless him, had pulled out the most reliable song in any Aussie’s DJ’s arsenal: ‘Khe Sanh’. No matter where you go in this country, there is only one way dancefloors react to Cold Chisel’s song about that screwed-up Vietnam vet. All dancing will stop, and everyone will link arms in a kind of rugby scrum. And everyone will sing along because everyone knows the words. Then, towards the end, when Barnesy starts singing about the last plane outta Sydney, they’ll jump up and down. And when the song finishes, you always get a massive cheer.

It occurred to me that while Nige might not have much musical taste, at least in my somewhat snobbish opinion, his favourites coincide almost exactly with those of your average lawyer.

I went over to the DJ booth, where he was clearly having the time of his life, and high-fived him.

‘Jono!’ he shouted. ‘Mate, this is easy. They love it!’

‘Awesome. What’ve you been playing?’

‘Oh, a bit of everything. Powderfinger, some Oils, a bit of Pearl Jam, and of course my man, JBJ.’

By which he meant Jon Bon Jovi. All stuff I would never have chosen. But I could concede it would have done a much better job of keeping the crowd happy than Miles Davis.

‘Of course. Feel like a break, then?’

‘Yeah, I’m gonna have a bit of a boogie. But hey, maybe I can come back and help you out later?’

I smiled and said, ‘Of course.’

He made his way to the middle of the dancefloor, attracting cheers from everyone around him. So I pulled out Phil’s Movie Themes #3 disc, faded in the James Bond theme and grabbed the microphone.

‘Ladies and gentlemen, give it up for Claims Bond!’

He got a huge cheer. Nige may not have the skills to save the world from a moon-based laser, or even a corporate video from sucking. But he’d definitely saved my arse.

I still had three hours to fill, but with the MobyDisc selection, I’d get there easily. Nige had done a good job with the rock stuff, but it was time I served up a little somethin’ for the ladies. So I kicked in Cyndi Lauper’s ‘Girls Just Wanna Have Fun’ and we were off. Several secretaries screamed in delight when they heard the intro, and grabbed nearby boys, dragging them onto the floor.

I fired off Madonna’s ‘Hung Up’ followed by Young MC’s ‘Bust A Move’. Numbers swelled further, and now there were as many women as men dancing. Next I tried Michael Jackson’s ‘Beat It’, and as an Eddie Van Halen solo rang out around the art museum for perhaps the first time, I felt I was redeeming myself. Wanting to keep things at least a little contemporary, I threw in a bit of The Killers before taking things back to the ’70s with the Jackson 5’s ‘ABC’. And I did actually like all of these songs, I realised. Perhaps I could keep the retro enthusiasts happy without spinning any of the standard MobyDisc selections that would make me want to throw myself into the harbour?

I even threw a mash-up into the mix, something I’d never done before. I had a 2 Many DJs disc on my iPod, so I tried their combination of Destiny’s Child’s ‘Independent Women Part 2’ and AC/DC’s ‘Back In Black’. Putting Beyoncé’s vocal over Angus Young’s iconic riff worked surprisingly well. They were loving it, and to my surprise, so was I.

There must have been 150 people spilling off the dancefloor by this stage. And suddenly I noticed that Felicity was in the middle of the throng, spinning crazily around with Nige as she finally let go of all that tension. Apparently Sir Mix-A-Lot had been forgiven. She hadn’t touched any grog earlier because she’d wanted to stay in control to deal with potential emergencies, but from the way she was dancing with just about everyone in her orbit, she could well have accounted for a couple of the firm’s specially labelled bottles of Domaine Chandon all by herself.

Clearly, the night was going to go down as a success for her and her team, and after something of a false start, I was doing my bit. I only hoped she wouldn’t be too worn out by all the dancing.

At 1.30, half an hour after the last guest had tottered off to one of The Rocks’ many beautiful pubs full of ugly people, Felicity and I finished packing up. She’d signed off with the venue, and I’d cased up the last of my gear and lugged it to the safety of the carpark. We strolled across the lawn in front of the museum and wandered down to the waterside railing. It was really hot for November, and we breathed a sigh of relief as we looked out at the Opera House across the water, having survived the night’s festivities intact.

In front of us, the dregs of several harbour cruises were slowly being disgorged onto the jetties. It wasn’t long since I’d spent a few nights a month on boats like that. At the Morphett’s party, I’d entertained a far classier crowd. But the two groups weren’t so different, really. Just people who wanted to dance to a song they loved, and maybe get a bit of a grope or a pash on the dancefloor. Maybe there’d been a little less of the vomiting at the law firm party, but I’d still noticed plenty of people rushing queasily to the bathroom. As professional as they were during the week, everyone’s the same with a good song and alcohol.

I subtly snaked an arm around Felicity’s waist as we stood there. She nestled into me, resting her head on my shoulder, and I smiled. There was no need to say anything, we were content just to watch the harbour moving in front of us. I’d made our colleagues happy with my DJing, and there was nothing to be ashamed of. It may not have the parent-pleasing prestige of law, but they are both customer service industries where skilled technicians do their client’s bidding, and are well compensated for it. And there’s no denying that most of MJ’s lawyers spin just as much shit as a MobyDisc jockey.

No iPod’s shuffle mode could read a room and adapt like I had in there tonight. I’d nearly screwed up with my foolish attempt to garner credibility, but I’d pulled out of the tailspin, and without playing a single song I disliked. It was a victory, and the greatest part of my spoils was snuggling next to me.

‘So, what next?’ I asked.

She turned to face me, her face betraying a sheepish grin.

‘Um, the others are over the road at the Orient and I got a text saying it was going off. Do you mind if we drop in there for a bit?’

‘Of course not. It’s your night, you should enjoy it!’

‘You’re still invited back to my place. That is, if you’re still interested.’

‘Oh, I’m interested.’

‘You were great tonight Paul. I freaked out, but everyone loved it after you came back. I owe you, seriously.’

‘Yeah, keep thinking that.’

We wandered up the hill, still arm in arm. Felicity was talking about how complimentary the managing partner had been, and how she really thought she’d helped her career, and how she was going to organise the Christmas in July party next, and perhaps even the Melbourne Cup Day, and how she’d gotten lots of compliments on her dress, and everyone wanted to know where she’d bought it, and there was no way she’d tell them. I just kept walking happily beside her.

All the while, I was pondering mDisc. Sure, Phil could change the brand-name and tart up the logo to try and get more of an upmarket crowd if he wanted. But if I’d been able to nail the MJ party, using just the standard MobyDisc selection, then it would work anywhere. So I resolved to tell him I’d come back, but that becoming a partner was too much of a responsibility. Sure, I’d help him train people, and he could pay me more for that if he wanted. But even though I’d always looked on it with contempt, I’d succeeded only in proving that what he was doing already worked.

My resolve to return to getting easy money from my DJing skills was only bolstered by Felicity’s compliments. But as the booming sound system from the pub indicated we’d neared our destination, I couldn’t help wondering whether she’d accept me regularly filling dancefloors instead of Morphett Jackson timesheets.