Sprog Rock

You remember we are going to Sprog Rock today?

The Good Lady's voice danced through the air and landed in my ears with a heavy thump.

Sprog fucking what?

I stopped playing a metal version of All I want for Christmas is you on guitar and looked up at the madwoman claiming to be my wife.

We talked about this. I managed to get us free tickets to Sprog Rock today. We are all going. it is going to be lots of fun.

She lowered her book menacingly from the armchair across from me and glowered with her little caterpillar eyebrows. I caught a glimpse of the book cover before it disappeared out of sight and repressed a snort at the words indomitable and relatable heroine on it.

No doubt there was lesbianity in it. Not the good kind mind but the dull horrible kind full of accidental touches and longing glances instead of frantic scissorbanging.

I don't remember this Sprog Rock nonsense. Is it a panto?

My lips curled in distaste as I said the word Panto. Damn, I hated those things with a passion. Nobody told me when I almost singlehandedly made a baby with my sperms that I would be punished for years afterwards by being forced to go to Panto.
_{^{oh yes they did!... Oh no they... hang on.. fuck off with that shit.}}

No, it's not panto. That's next week. Beauty and the Beast.

She smirked, no doubt because she knew that she had told me a hundred times about the panto and each time the words just sailed through my head and out again to where they couldn't hurt someone.

Oh God, Beauty and the Beast. Truly I have died and gone to hell.

I looked up at the ceiling wondering if a God that I didn't believe in would pull me up out of this infernal pit I called life and let me in the upstairs club.

Highly unlikely, I know but so was the chance of me getting a Solar Guitar for Christmas but I still lived in hope.

Behave.

She threw something fluttery at me which I batted out of the way.

That is next week. Today we are going to Sprog Rock and it will be fun.

Somehow she pressed down hard on the last part of the sentence so that the words pounded at my head like a Goat butting at the door of Billy Joel's bedroom in a frantic effort to escape.

But what is Sprog Rock? I mean, who says Sprogs when they mean kids? It sounds so fucking twee.

I shook my head wishing that I had drunk more last night and was still seeing the world through the cheery blur of alcohol.

It is music for kids made with kids. It's got a beatboxer!

She said beatboxer with the obvious delight of someone who doesn't know that a beatboxer is just a dude who farts and spits into a microphone.

Oh god, a fucking beatboxer. What else? What other delights can there possibly be?

I hoped the sarcasm in my voice was detectable to someone that thought Panto and beatboxing was high entertainment.

The Good Lady sighed in a long-suffering way before picking up her book again and shaking her head at me.

Before she could start reading she barked out a laugh and looked up.

I think some of the band are dressing up as dinosaurs!

She lifted the book to hide her face and shuddering laughter. It didn't work very well.

Dinosaurs. Oh fuck. I better go and get petrol for the car.

I got up and grabbed my wallet. Maybe on the way to the petrol station, I would crash the car in a ditch and lose a leg in the mangled wreckage.

One can only hop hope.