He Smelt My Love

He Smelt My Love A Life Spent Living in the Shadow of Dan Cooper

By Samuel Bartholew Thomas

CHAPTER ONE

It’s Your Day It was Christmas time, and the 2 Pigs nightclub, where I worked as a second-rate DJ and full-time disappointment, was packed with the usual crowd of drunk twenty-somethings looking to forget their miserable lives for a few hours. My voluntary shift cleaning the toilets had ended an hour ago, but I stayed behind, hanging out with the staff as we prepared for our annual holiday shindig—bowling, drinks, and a collective effort to pretend we were all friends.

I hated it. Not the bowling, not the drinks, but everything in between—the smell of stale beer, the fake smiles, the awkward small talk. And mostly, my own flatulence. I mean, I had issues. I won’t go into detail (believe me, you don’t want me to), but let’s just say, when you have chronic gas, it’s hard to make a good impression. The barmaid once joked that I stank like a rotten nappy full of diarrhetic skunks. Funny, but not when you’re the one who can’t make it through a sentence without the room clearing out.

So, I spent most of the evening sulking in the corner, nursing my drink, and keeping a respectable distance from the rest of the group. The lights were too bright, the music too loud, and every time someone laughed, I could practically feel my intestines twisting in sympathy.

But then, he walked in.

Dan Cooper. The man, the myth, the legend.

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If you’ve ever seen someone who looked like they should be a god instead of a local DJ, then you can imagine Dan. He had the charisma of a rock star and the look of someone who had stepped out of an art gallery—effortlessly stylish, effortlessly cool. His jawline could cut glass, and his hair—oh, God, his hair—was like something out of a shampoo commercial. There was a rumble in the room when he entered, like a collective breath was taken all at once.

I’d seen him around, sure—he was the head DJ, the one they actually paid to play the good music, the one who never seemed to break a sweat. But that night, I saw him for the first time. Really saw him. His presence lit up the dingy space like he was a walking spotlight, and I couldn’t take my eyes off him.

“Sam, you coming to the lanes?” my manager, Chip, called out to me, his booming voice snapping me out of my trance.

“Yeah… yeah, I’ll be right there,” I muttered, trying to sound casual, like I wasn’t actively plotting how to find a way to talk to Dan without embarrassing myself.

We all piled into the bowling alley. Dan was, unsurprisingly, on a team by himself. He was that good—at everything, apparently. He bowled like a pro, like a man who had never had to struggle with anything in his life.

Meanwhile, I struggled to throw a ball without tripping over my own feet, hoping no one would notice my nervous farts.

Dan won, of course. By a lot. But it didn’t bother me. There was something almost divine in the way he moved, how everything he did seemed effortless. It made me feel like I was in the presence of something larger than life. Maybe I was being dramatic, but at that moment, he felt untouchable.

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The night ended with a few half-hearted goodbyes, the kind that you give people you’ll never see again. But I knew—I knew deep down— that I would see Dan again. There was something about him. Something magnetic. Something that made the entire room seem dim in comparison.

I walked home, my mind racing, replaying every moment of that night.

Dan’s smile. His effortless charm. The way the light seemed to bend around him.

When I finally got to my parent’s house, I collapsed onto my bed, staring at the ceiling. For the first time in months—maybe years—I felt something.

Something that wasn’t loneliness or frustration or flatulence. It was… possibility. My life could be different.

I must’ve fallen asleep almost immediately, because when I woke up the next morning, it was like the world had shifted.

The birds were singing outside. I swear I could hear them chirping like they were announcing a new dawn. I rubbed my eyes and stretched, feeling lighter somehow. It wasn’t just the absence of my usual morning gas pains—it was like everything in my body had been reset, like I had woken up in a different life.

I looked at myself in the mirror. My skin was clearer. My eyes were brighter. My shoulders felt less hunched. My face didn’t look like Baby Dracula anymore—it looked like someone who had just discovered something important about themselves. I felt… good.

The sun was streaming through the window, and it was a beautiful day. I knew I had to do something with it. Something big.

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I plugged in my DJ decks and started to mess around with a few mixes.

For the first time in a long time, the music didn’t sound like a horny moose being hit by a snow plough. It felt like art—the way Dan made it feel.

Every beat had a purpose. Every transition was smooth and intentional. I felt like I was channeling something.

Then came the knock at the door.

“Sam? You up yet?” my mum’s voice called from the hallway.

I groaned and stood up to answer it. She peeked in, her face a mix of concern and curiosity. “What are you up to in here - fiddling with Mr Tiddler again?” she asked, taking in the sight of me standing by my decks in my tattered and stained pants.

I paused for a moment, as if unsure how to explain what had just happened to me. What I felt. The change. But I didn’t have to. I didn’t have to say anything.

“Wow,” she said, standing there for a beat, looking at me with a sort of surprise. “You’ve never sounded so good before.”

And just like that, I knew. I knew that something in me had clicked, like a switch being flipped. Whatever magic Dan Cooper had, whatever force he wielded over the world around him—it was rubbing off on me. I could feel it in my bones.

I smiled, more confident than I’d ever felt in my entire life. Maybe the 2 Pigs wasn’t my last stop after all. Maybe, just maybe, there was a place for me in this world. A place beside Dan Cooper.

And so began the first day of the rest of my life.

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CHAPTER TWO

Urine Trouble It started innocently enough.

I didn’t mean to follow him, not really. But when you’ve been as invisible as I have for most of your life, you begin to recognize the feeling when something—or someone—makes you feel seen. Dan Cooper made me feel seen. Hell, he made me feel alive. And when you’re someone who’s spent most of their days hiding behind a DJ booth that smells of rancid arse, the idea of being noticed, even in the tiniest way, becomes irresistible.

It didn’t take long before I was practically shadowing him. I’d show up early to his sets at the 2 Pigs, hanging around the bar, or perched on the edge of the DJ booth, staring up at him like some adoring puppy. The man was a god to me, and like any disciple, I thought I should be as close as possible to the source of divine power. Maybe he’d see me, recognize my potential, and finally take me under his wing. Maybe I’d even become his apprentice—his little protege.

But Dan, as it turned out, was a busy man. A busy, highly attractive man who had a lot of fans, a lot of people trying to get his attention. And me?

Well, I was just the awkward, scrawny guy who wore bad pointy shoes and had a penchant for breaking wind. Still, I persisted.

“Sam, right?” Dan said to me one evening, as I followed him through the back corridors of the club, clutching my controller like I was about to present him with a crown or something. He had this way of saying things like he didn’t really care—like he was acknowledging my existence out of sheer politeness, but hadn’t the slightest idea who I was.

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SAMUEL BARTHOLOMEW THOMAS

I nodded eagerly, barely able to contain myself. “Yeah, Sam! Samuel Bartholomew Thomas, actually, but everyone calls me Sam.” Dan squinted at me for a second, as if trying to place my face. His brow furrowed slightly, then he shrugged. “Sure, yeah. Sam.” My heart sank a little, but I didn’t let it show. He’d get there eventually.

He had to.

Days turned into weeks, and the more I followed him around, the more I started to feel like… well, like I was some kind of pet. Not a real person, but a scrappy little creature trailing behind him, always ready to fetch the next pint, or offer up an enthusiastic “Good set, Dan!” after every single song he played. To him, I was probably just some weird guy who couldn’t take a hint. But I didn’t mind. Being in his orbit felt enough, like a distant star who’d be happy just to be in his galaxy.

And then one night, something changed.

Dan, after a particularly chaotic set where the club was practically shaking with energy, leaned over to me in the DJ booth. His smile was a little weary, but kind. “You know what, Sam? You’re persistent. I’ll give you that. How about this?”

I froze. This was it. This was it.

“I’m doing a set upstairs in the crow’s nest next week,” Dan continued, not noticing my heart racing. “I could use someone to play the warm-up.

Think you can handle it?”

My face lit up. “Yes! Yes, of course! I’ll be ready. Totally ready!”

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Dan smiled and gave me a casual pat on the shoulder. “Cool. Just don’t mess it up.”

I could barely contain my excitement as I nodded vigorously. It was a small gig, but it felt huge to me. This was it. I was going to be Dan’s DJ partner. His sidekick.

The next week, I arrived early, prepared with a setlist that I was sure would make Dan proud. As I climbed up to the booth, I found Dan already there, his usual cool composure on full display. He didn’t look at me, but I didn’t mind. I was in the presence of greatness.

The set began, and I felt like I was floating. The crowd was buzzing with anticipation. Dan was killing it, as always. His energy was contagious, and I was riding that wave of excitement, mixing tracks and trying to sound as smooth as he did. Every time he nodded at me, I felt like I was receiving some kind of cosmic approval.

The night was going perfectly.

Then came the chant. The one I was half-expecting, half-dreading.

“Dan Cooper! Dan Cooper! Dan Cooper!”

The crowd, a writhing mass of sweaty bodies, began chanting his name like some kind of religious incantation. The dance floor was packed.

I had never seen the club so full. Girls were lining up for selfies, guys were trying to shake his hand, and people were literally fighting for his autograph. It was like the entire club had been hypnotized by his charm.

And that’s when the jealousy hit me. That’s when I realized just how little I mattered in that room.

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SAMUEL BARTHOLOMEW THOMAS

I wasn’t the one they were chanting for. I wasn’t the one they were clamoring to get close to. I was just… the guy who stood there mixing records, occasionally looking up to catch Dan’s eye, which, to be honest, never stayed on me for more than a second.

I had to do something. Something to get his attention.

That’s when it hit me—an idea so stupid, so childish, that even I hesitated for a moment. But I was desperate. Desperate for recognition. Desperate for validation. And desperate to get even just a sliver of the magic that Dan seemed to have in spades.

I grabbed an empty pint glass and held it out of sight under the decks, then did what any normal person would do in my situation: I urinated in it.

It was frothy and slightly green-tinged, but not enough to make it look suspicious, especially under the disco lights. Then, with the subtlety of a stinky ninja, I slid the glass over to him.

“Hey, Dan,” I said, trying to sound casual. “Want a drink? I got you one.”

Dan glanced down at the pint, raising an eyebrow. “Uh… thanks?”

“Yeah, it’s a special slushie sour NEIPA from Fuckhead Brewery. Trust me, it’s the best.”

I watched, my pulse hammering, as Dan took the glass and took a long, steady sip. My heart raced.

And then… it happened.

Dan’s face contorted. His eyes widened.

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“Jesus Christ, what the hell was that?” he exclaimed, shoving the glass away. He bolted down the steps of the crow’s nest, stumbling toward the ladies bathroom with a look of utter horror on his face. The crowd was still chanting his name, but no one noticed that their idol had just consumed something far less glorious than the champagne they thought he was drinking.

Dan rushed out, and I stood there, frozen, feeling a mix of triumph and horror.

A few minutes later, the club’s manager, who looked more concerned than angry, came up to me. “Dan’s gone. He’s not coming back tonight. You’re on your own.”

I stared at him, confused.

“But—but—what happened?” I stammered, trying to make sense of the chaos in my head.

“He’s sick. Really sick. Apparently, some moron tricked him into drinking something awful.” The manager shot me a look of disdain. “If you know what’s good for you, you’ll finish the night without any more incidents.”

I tried to play records. I tried to salvage the night. But it was a disaster.

The crowd was still hyped up, but no one was feeling the music. The energy died as soon as the first track I played—Arctic Monkeys (again)— came on. I didn’t have the finesse that Dan had. I didn’t have the magic.

The dance floor started to empty, people slowly trickling out, probably because they couldn’t stand the boring music, or maybe because they could smell me.

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My farts were getting worse, the nervous pressure in my gut building by the minute. One particularly pungent gust made a couple nearby stop dancing and start crying—and not in the “Oh my God, this is so beautiful” kind of way. I’d ruined the whole damn thing.

When I looked around the booth, I realized the truth. I wasn’t Dan Cooper.

I could never be him. I could never be the thing that people wanted.

And just like that, I’d messed up everything.

I didn’t know if I’d ever be forgiven.

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CHAPTER THREE

Second Chances The morning after the “incident,” I couldn’t bring myself to look at Dan. Not that he was around, mind you. He’d left the club in a hurry, looking slightly more pale than usual, but he hadn’t said a word to me.

I spent the next couple of days trying to convince myself that it hadn’t been as bad as it seemed. That maybe, just maybe, he’d forget about it. I tried to think of the best possible scenario—maybe he’d blame the whole thing on a freak accident, something he could laugh off and pretend never happened.

But deep down, I knew it wasn’t that simple. I had basically tricked him into drinking my piss. He had to hate me. He had to. No one comes back from that.

So, when I saw him again a few days later—he was back at the 2 Pigs, wearing his signature red leather trousers and looking way too cool for someone who had just been violated by my bodily fluids—I froze.

He walked past me, not saying anything, and I immediately felt a wave of nausea rise in my stomach and exit via my bottom.

But then, as I was walking toward the bar, I heard it. His voice.

“Hey, Sam.” I turned around. He was standing there, leaning against the DJ booth, looking at me with a mixture of curiosity and something else. Pity?

Compassion? I couldn’t tell.

“Uh, hey,” I said, suddenly feeling ten times smaller than I already was.

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He sighed. “You know, you’re lucky I didn’t have to make a scene last time.”

I blinked, still unsure if he was about to give me the “fuck off” speech.

“I mean, really lucky,” Dan continued, his voice calm, collected. He looked me up and down, as if sizing me up, but not in a mean way. “But, it’s fine.

We all do dumb shit when we’re trying too hard to impress someone.”

I opened my mouth to apologize again, but he cut me off before I could say anything.

“Look, Sam. I get it. You’re desperate. You’re... well, you’re like me, I guess.”

I froze, my heart leaping into my throat.

“What do you mean?” I asked, trying not to sound like an absolute idiot.

Dan stepped forward and lowered his voice. “I was like you once. Pathetic.

Creepy. Weird. Not smelly, though,” he added with a half-smirk. “But I get it. You want to be someone. You want to be seen. And maybe, sometimes, that means doing stupid shit.” He gave me a long look, as though assessing me—like I wasn’t the biggest screw-up in the room anymore.

I didn’t know what to say. He was being so… nice. So understanding. This wasn’t the reaction I had expected at all. I had thought he would tell me to get lost and never come back. But instead, he was showing me a kindness that, honestly, I didn’t deserve.

“You’re lucky I’m not some psycho,” Dan continued, shrugging casually as though it was no big deal. “I could’ve gone off the rails. But I won’t.

I’ll give you another shot, Sam.” 14

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And just like that, I felt the weight of the world lift off my shoulders.

“I’ll do better next time,” I said, before I could stop myself.

Dan raised an eyebrow. “I’m sure you will.” Then, as if to make the moment lighter, he let out a little fart of his own. A small, eggy one. It was the kind of thing a normal person would be embarrassed about, but Dan just shrugged. “We all have our moments,” he said with a grin.

In that moment, I knew. Dan Cooper wasn’t just a DJ, a god of the turntables, an almost untouchable idol. No. He was something more. He was... a second chance.

Twelve months later, Dan and I were running a club night together. The event was called Bet You Look Good On The Dance Floor, a name I had suggested in one of my weaker moments of creativity. Dan loved it immediately, which made me feel like I was somehow part of the magic that he could weave into everything. The night was a success. The crowd adored him.

But there was something I had come to accept: no matter how close we became, people would always chant his name. “Dan Cooper! Dan Cooper!” It was like a prayer, like they were invoking some higher power.

And, well, they were. Dan was a genius on the decks. I was just the guy who made sure the drinks were in the right place and that there was no urine in them before he drank.

It was almost funny, really. There were still moments where I’d find myself staring at him, caught up in the gravity of his presence, and thinking about how far I’d come. I was still awkward, still had a tendency to erupt with terrible odours at the wrong time, but somehow, things were better now.

And every time I watched him DJ, I was still in awe.

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Dan had introduced me to his world. His real world, the one he kept so guarded. It was a strange world—one where he didn’t have a family, just a collection of loyal fans and a few old friends who’d drifted away. He was a mysterious nomad, living like a wanderer, a genius who was destined to change the world, even if he didn’t have anyone to share it with.

But he had me, I guess. I was more than just the guy who bought him drinks.

And then came the moment that would change everything.

It was a late night, a few months after we’d started our club night. We were sitting in the back room of the 2 Pigs, cooling off after a particularly killer set, when Dan looked up from his phone with a gleam in his eye.

“I’ve been working on something,” he said cryptically.

I was leaning forward now, fully alert. “What is it?”

Dan smiled. “It’s a song. A new track. I wrote it myself.”

I nodded eagerly, trying to calm my excitement. “Okay, let’s hear it.”

Dan hit play, and I swear to God, my entire perception of music shifted in that moment.

The first notes of the song hit me like a wall of sound, the kind of melody that vibrated through every cell in my body. It was unlike anything I had ever heard before—beautiful, chaotic, angelic, raw. Every beat, every layer of sound felt like it was creating a universe in front of me. It was an experience more than just music. It was an orchestral symphony, layered with electronic beats, vocals that sounded like they were sung by celestial beings.

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The track was called Butt Pics.

I know what you’re thinking. But trust me, it wasn’t the title that mattered.

It was the music. The way the song built and crashed, the way every note felt like it was alive. I could barely comprehend the genius behind it. I could feel it in my fetid bowels, this was the most incredible thing I had ever heard.

Dan sat back, watching me closely. “Well?” he asked, his eyes sparkling.

I was trying not to cry. “It’s... it’s perfect,” I whispered. “It’s beyond perfect.”

Dan smiled that mysterious, enigmatic smile of his. “I knew you’d get it.”

“I don’t think I’ve ever heard anything like this,” I said, my voice shaking with the realization of what he had just shown me. “It’s... it’s not just music. It’s... it’s art.”

Dan’s grin widened. “I need someone to play the music when I sing it live.

Someone who understands it. Someone who can take it to the next level.”

It hit me all at once. Like a light bulb flickering on, I understood what he was asking.

I could feel the tears welling up in my eyes.

“Dan... I’ll do it,” I said, choking on my words. “I’ll play the music. I’ll...

I’ll do whatever it takes. Just... just let me be a part of this. Let me be with you.”

Dan nodded slowly. “I know. I know you will.”

In that moment, I understood everything.

Everything was about to change. Again.

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CHAPTER FOUR

Smell You Later It’s funny how the universe works. How something as absurd, as random, as ridiculous as a song about pictures of your bottom could become a clarion call for an entire generation. It wasn’t just a song anymore. It was a movement. It was the heartbeat of our time.

It started with a few hundred downloads. Then a few thousand. Within weeks, it was the number one track on every playlist across the globe.

People couldn’t stop talking about it. They couldn’t stop singing it. You’d be walking down the street, and suddenly, you’d hear it—echoing from the windows of every car, blasting from the headphones of every passerby.

“BUTT PICS!” The chant, the melody, the absurd, glorious anthem of a broken world desperately seeking joy.

The people wanted Butt Pics. They wanted it so bad that it started to become more than just a song—it became a mantra. A symbol. A beacon of unity in a world that had almost forgotten how to smile. And everywhere we went, from Gloucester to Cheltenham, the crowds were enraptured.

They chanted our names, they raised their hands, they were all in on the joke. And yet, the joke wasn’t a joke anymore. It was something deep, something profound, something that didn’t need to be explained.

Dan, of course, was a godsend. His genius, his poetry, his transcendent ability to turn a simple idea into an unforgettable masterpiece, made everything right. But he was humble, ever modest, ever mysterious. For all the fame and adoration, for all the fans screaming “Dan Cooper! Dan Cooper!” he never changed.

Well, that’s not entirely true. Dan had become a national treasure. People respected him as an artist, a philosopher, a poet. Butt Pics was adopted into the national curriculum as the perfect example of modern poetry.

It was played in schools, dissected in classrooms. Professors had longwinded lectures about its structure, its metaphor, its ability to bind the 18

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very fabric of society together. I’m not exaggerating when I say that it was the anthem of the decade.

But nothing Dan ever created, however brilliant, ever quite touched the wild, untamed brilliance of Butt Pics.

Somewhere between sold-out stadium shows and interviews with international media outlets, I found myself just… following Dan’s lead.

Always playing the supporting role. He never asked for anything more than that, and I never gave him less.

Sure, there were moments when I could barely hear the music over the roar of the crowd. There were nights when I stood there, hands on my decks, watching Dan perform, and I realized that I was living in the shadow of a giant. But I was okay with it. I had to be. Because without Dan, I was nothing.

And even with the megafame, there was still a small part of me—no matter how much success we had—that always knew I was still the sidekick. The “pet,” in our strange little duo. But that was okay too.

I got to see him live. I got to watch as the world bowed to his genius. I got to be close to him, to feel his presence, to hear his words. He didn’t just write music. He wrote life.

But he also let me sing.

Oh, sure, it wasn’t much—just the occasional honk into the microphone, a garbled, off-key “BUTT PICS” that no one ever really wanted to hear. But I sang it, and he’d smile, like a proud father watching his adopted child stumble through a school play. And I, in turn, would feel a brief flicker of warmth, as if I was almost as important as he was.

One night, while we were backstage after a show, Dan looked at me with an expression I hadn’t seen before. It was a rare, knowing look that made me feel like he truly saw me.

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“You’re not just my pet, you know,” he said quietly, as if he was talking more to himself than to me. “You’re my friend.”

I didn’t know how to respond. I mean, I wasn’t sure I even deserved to be called that. But it meant everything to me. Dan didn’t just give me a chance. He gave me a life.

The years flew by, and things only got bigger, more surreal. Butt Pics was featured in movies, commercials, everywhere. It became the theme song for everyone—no matter where you were, no matter what you were doing, you could always count on the sweet, joyous refrain of Butt Pics to bring the world together. In a way, it did solve things. It brought people together.

It made everyone laugh, made everyone realize how absurd life could be—and how, sometimes, that’s the point.

But me? I stayed the same.

I never stopped loving Dan. No, that’s not right. I worshipped him.

My inspiration. My reason for existing. I loved him beyond love, beyond words. He was my hero. He had given me it all—purpose, direction, meaning. He had saved me from a life of mediocrity, of loneliness, of never being seen. He was the light in my otherwise dim existence.

And yet, there was one thing that never changed: I still had chronic flatulence. The worst kind. The kind that made people gag when I walked by.

It didn’t matter where we went, who we were with, how important the event was. If I was there, you could bet that within ten minutes, someone would wrinkle their nose. Someone would pull a face. People would leave the room.

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I was still the guy with the anus from Chernobyl.

But Dan never seemed to mind. He’d just smile that knowing, slightly bemused smile of his, like he was tolerating it for my sake. It was like he had become immune to the smell. Maybe that’s what love really was—the ability to choose to put up with someone’s worst qualities.

The truth is, I could never be as perfect as Dan. No one could. He was everything I could never be.

As I finished writing this book—He Smelt My Love—I couldn’t shake the weight of that reality. Dan had granted me the universe, and in the end, I would always fall short of him.

I wiped away the tears that had been sitting there far too long.

And then, it hit me.

It was my birthday.

I’d completely forgotten. Because I never think about myself. Not when I’m thinking about Dan. I laughed softly, and let out a long solumn fart like the bugle call at a military funeral. It smelt disrespectful. I composed myself and dabbed the last of my tears away.

It didn’t matter. None of it mattered. Because if there was one thing I knew, it was that wherever my life takes me from here, I will always be a part of his story.

He was everything to me, and I would give him anything—everything—if he ever needed it... though, deep down, a part of me wonders if I already had, long ago, on that fateful night when we first met.

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In He Smelt My Love - A Life Spent Living in the Shadow of Dan Cooper, local DJ Samuel B. Thomas takes readers on a journey through his turbulent relationship with superstar DJ Dan Cooper. Samuel shares how he first met Dan at a Christmas party and quickly became both his friend and his biggest fan, reveling in the thrill of late nights, intense beats, and dreams of stardom. Their shared love of music, however, is often undercut by Dan’s overshadowing success, leading to feelings of envy and resentment that Samuel tries hard to bury.

The autobiography is as much about the universal pangs of unfulfilled ambition as it is about the quirky, sometimes cringe-worthy adventures that pepper their story. Samuel weaves humorous tales of their bizarre encounters—from late-night mix-ups and ill-fated club scenes to his notorious misjudgments around trust. Beneath the humor, however, lies a deeper story of betrayal and jealousy, as Samuel wrestles with his feelings of inferiority and the constant reminder of his friend’s overwhelming talent.

The narrative crescendos in moments of painfully honest self-reflection, including Samuel’s struggle with a rather unique personal problem: his infamous, foul-smelling flatulence, which adds a touch of levity to otherwise intense moments. Through all the ups and downs, He Smelt My Love remains a heartfelt ode to Dan Cooper’s genius, as Samuel ultimately finds peace in the role he played in supporting a superstar and learns to accept his own gifts—both musical and flatulent.