If there is one thing that frightens the pants off me, it’s when the boys bring the letter home that says there is a school disco coming up.
I'm not saying I’m old but…
I hate it.
Lots of schools do discos and many have their own way of doing things. In our case it’s a major event. The kids aren’t allowed to be left unsupervised so we adults have to go too. And for me, it’s a very special type of hell.
I don’t do crowds.
I don’t do noise.
I don’t do over-excited sugar-induced kids.
What I’m saying is I dread it.
And my cunning wife, Jo is always busy. She cheats. She reads things. When the boys bring home these letters she actually reads them! So by the time I find out about the disco she already has something else written on the calendar.
And as you know – if it’s on the calendar it’s safe.
It really does get crowded in there. The mixture of heat infused body odour and Disco Dave’s smoke machine only adds to the joy.
And then I get dragged to the sweet stall.
It is after all a treat for the kids, and it doesn’t happen often, and the proceeds all go to the school…
Oh God – I’m going to have to take Jamie to the sweet stall.
Thankfully, I reckon by the next disco he’ll be able to go buy his own bloody chocolate. The thing is the queue gets mixed with the beer stall, which I’ll come back to, and so you wait forever.
Eventually, you get to the front and that’s when war breaks out. Ten children lie in wait and swamp you as you finally push your youngest properly through the queue and he spends approximately a month studying the array of treats. How much can he spend? How much are these? How much are these? How much are these? This goes on for a week.
The lady behind the counter is basically surviving on gin as the crowd of children rub their sweaty hands over her stock but never actually come to a decision.
I crack and throw the whole box of Fruit Pastilles packets into the air. I shove a note in the gin lady’s hand and drag Jamie away. We have sugar.
Back to the beer stall.
As I said, adults have to stay so they put on a beer stall. Result – I guess. And the beer is cheap. Even better result – I hear you say. In practise, this means that five million pikeys spend all night buying warm tins of Fosters and bottles of Cuban Chardonnay. The queue never dies down.
I have no doubts that there are some parents who see this as the best night out of the year. A chance to sit in their school-gate cliques and get plastered on cheap booze while slagging off anyone at a different table is just too great an opportunity to miss. They get dressed up in their absolute best – honest! Some of the mums came in the most unbelievable outfits – my flabber was well and truly ghasted. Boobs were hanging out everywhere I looked, and still were on the second and third times that I checked. And fourth.
At a kid’s disco!
It’s all too desperate for me. I wore my grumpiest frown and just stood watching the clock until I could get away with taking the boys home.
Meanwhile, the boys had a blast. Especially Daniel whose name I heard being called out by Disco Dave as a winner but I’d missed what it was he’d won. I was really proud – what a chip off the old block he is?
Clearly my ten year old had just completely out-danced his peers. His body-popping moves had clearly outshone everyone else’s. Or was it the Robot dance I’dtaught him that had put him ahead?
I was looking forward to finding out.
Musical – bloody – bumps.
My ten year old had managed to take on a bunch of seven year olds and beat them at sitting down. Three tables of angry mums had disregarded their school-gate politic and joined forces to cast their hatred our way. It’s safe to assume Daniel will not be receiving any birthday party invites for a while!
I'm determined to find out the date of the next disco first – there has to be a way of beating Jo at her own game!