Music Club XLVI

Flinchy: How’s Violetta?

Starchild: Not heard for a few days. I might call the clinic now actually.

Bull: Go upstairs for it. Don’t wanna hear you two smooching.

Starchild exits

Flinchy: Where’s Justin?

Bull: Think he’s got flu or something

Flinchy: Hope it’s not too serious. He can’t afford to be ill again with coursework coming up. What are we listening to today then?

Dom: How about some hip-hop? We never do hip-hop.

Bull: You wanna play hip-hop?

Dom: What, I’m too white to like hip-hop? How racist is that?

Bull: No, you’re too lame to like hip-hop

Flinchy: I’d hope, Dom, that you’re too classically trained to like hip-hop

Bull: Classically trained? You teach at a run-down comprehensive, not the Royal Academy.

Flinchy: Hip-hop’s artless. Shostakovich never wrote about cash or...gardening implements.

Bull: Only cos he didn’t have any

Flinchy: No, he had a well-stocked shed by all accounts

Bull: I’m just glad Andrew isn’t here. I can’t take any more of those retro TV themes.

Flinchy: Shit, I forgot to pick him up

Starchild re-enters

Dom: How was she?

Starchild: Wasn’t there. Apparently she checked out at the weekend.

Bull: Without telling you? That’s gotta hurt.

Starchild: I guess she wants some time alone. You don’t get much privacy in those places.

Bull: Either that, or she’s dumped you

Starchild: She’ll call when she’s ready. Me and her apart is like...fire without ice.

Bull: So, the normal kind?