That's correcter than you think because it means that Walking the Line - Australia's Number One Johnny Cash Showband will be appearing NUDE at the Murraylands Music Festival this weekend. Did I say 'nude'? I meant 'live'. Sorry.

But what else is there a-going on around the City of Churches and uselessly bent politicians....eh?

Well, on wednesday night, as per fukken usual, you can get along to the Whitmore Hotel (Morphett Street, the City)  to see the Shady Blues Band with Mike .... shit, I've forgotten again... Mike.... Mike Hunt? No.... MIke the Singing Man at the front. Good rockin blues from some fine musicians, (although I still hold the title of Best Blues Bass player in the World as we Know it).

Friday October 29, The Barstool Philosophers think long and hard about appearing at the Whitmore Hotel. It is reported the Philosophers are great blues feel band, with great grooves and songs we all know and love. Huh! I wonder if they'll play Shortnin' Bread? Eh? That's a song I know and love. Or, like. A bit. I know the chorus anyway.

Staurday, October 30 ... look, if it's good enough for us to do it, it's good enough for you. Cram the family into the Bitsaremissing Magma, shove the littler ones in the boot and drive up to the Murraylands Music Festival at Tailem Bend to see, firstly, Amber Joy Poulton present her puppies... no, got that wrong, to see Amber Joy present her songs in a way you've never heard them before. She will sing them from inside an industrial peanut shelling machine with a duck taped to her knees. Fuk, got that bit wrong, too. Apparently she's just going to sing the fukken songs on a stage. Hardly seems worth the effort; i was looking forward to shoving her in the peanut shelling doover. But, while you're up there, will you check my hair for nits?  Jeezus this keyboard is giving me the shits; it's getting everything wrong. Try again:  While you're up there... at Tailem Fukken Bend... you'll see the amazing Walking The Line Johnny Cash Showband featuring Derringer's Music Best Blues Bass Player.  Fuck the other bastards; they're always getting 'featured' just because they know the words to a bunch of songs.

Those folking buggers The Beggars will be up at the Murraylands Music Festival too.

Sunday Oct 31, from 3pm, legendary Chris Finnen presents an 'up close and acoustic afternoon with Adelaide’s finest guitar player' at the Whitmore Hotel.

Sunday at the Wine Underground (October 31) you will see, hear and feel, DAVE BLIGHT and the Flyers.  Come on, that's gotta be worth getting off your arse for. 

Now, I'm back in the dunny, reading from the wartime diary of Derek 'Digger' Digby. It's so fascinating i forgot to do a poo. Anyway, read on...

Wombats over Dresden, continued extracts from a wartime diary as written by Derek ‘Digger” Digby. On loan to the RAF for the war effort, Digby was the Squadron Leader of the the 32nd Australian Heavy Marsupial Airborne Battalion which was captained by British Wing Commander Brian 'Buttocks' Bottomley.

Page umpty-un....

“The sentry opened the gates of our RAF base, allowing the entry of the shiny black vice-regal Morris Minor from which Churchill alighted, broke wind loudly and shook his trouser leg before making his way to our Nissen hut.  
“ 'My Jolly Fly-Boys and Chummy Chaps,’ Winnie said, smoking a sausage as big as a dog turd.  ‘I’ve had another dream. Another two in fact; the first was a wet dream in which I chucked me custard in me P.J’s over Gracie Fields singing I took my golden harp to the party but wound up playing the pink flute. The second dream is the one that quite honestly sacred the manure out of my muck-spreader at over 60 miles per hour! The Dresden Dolls' future remained unchanged! My bally brain was tortured again in its dreams with the sick, hackneyed Cabaret-style plinky-plonking on a blasted tinny Joanna only to then hear the fukken bitch start singing about Sex Changes. Lord forbid... Enough! No More failures, chaps. We must fight the fukken bitch on her own landing strip and we will fertilise our Gracie Fields with her blood and bones. Here’s a tenner, go and buy what's required to get the job done. Now, I need a shit; where’s the dunny? PHTHPHTHPHTHPPPPPPPPP. Whoops, better get cracking, I’ve just autographed my gusset with the greasy crayon.’
“ ‘You heard Churchill,’ said Wing Commander Brian Buttocks Bottomley, ‘Chappies, I will take this tenner and turn it into a fortune by investing in ten scratchies – we can’t possibly miss with ten of the fukkers.  And then, we will properly outfit the 32nd Australian Heavy Marsupial Squadron and burn Dresden to the ground, at the first break in the weather.’
“The weather broke early the following year, in February. Our investment had strangely soured and Buttocks threw hisself on the mercy of our Commonwealth Colonies to furnish the ammo we needed. We were not let down.
“During zero-week, we took delivery of tons of over-ripe mangoes, maggoty tomatoes and fermented onions. And then there was the ‘surprise package’ for the Hun – a giant mango of the kind that is bred in clusters in the shade of loin-cloths in Jamaica.  Its nick-name was Mongo; It was as big a fat koala bear with a seed estimated to have the destructive force of two and a half coconuts.
“Zero-morning and we stuffed our flying forager’s guts with the seething provender.  By the time we kicked out the chocks the beast’s guts were all rumbling like not-so-distant thunder.
“Mongo was force-fed into Buttocks Bottomley’s flying wombat with a toilet plunger. It nearly gagged the poor animal which showed true Aussie grit and swallowed the massive mortar like Shirley Cheestring deep-throating the lads behind the bicycle shed.
“Wishing to make no mistake with directions this time, Buttocks Bottomley had the back of his flying wombat shaved and a road map of western Europe tattooed on the beast’s pink skin.
“Late afternoon on Monday, The War, the rain stopped, the clouds parted, all over Europe the washing was hung on the line, and we were airborne – we had to stop the future creation of the Dresden Dolls or die in the attempt.
“The first pass over Dresden took the sausage-eaters completely by surprise – we must have scalded millions of them with a shit-storm of stinking hot chutney that spewed from the flying wombats' bomb-bays.  Banking high over the Frankfurter Mountains we roared down the Knackwurst Valley for the deadly strafing run – tons of stinking, slimy, hairy-edged mango seeds designed to lay the joint utterly to waste.  To witness the horrific devastation, death and injury and spoiled washing was a joyful sight that made my heart sing. It looked like we were going to be successful.
“However, the coup de grace planned by Buttocks Bottomley went awry. Diving away from the formation, Buttocks was going to personally deliver Mongo the Giant Mango to the Dresden orphanage. I’d guessed what he was thinking:  only the offspring of a proper bastard could produce such an awful plinky-plonk caterwauling cacophony. But something was wrong; screaming towards the teeming tenement, Buttocks Bottomley’s mount suffered a breech birth of the oversized mango pit which created a blow-out in front of the bomb bay. As Bottomley and his mount careered to certain doom, Mongo shot sideways out of the wombat’s ruptured guts and slammed into the hospital!
“Not a bad result, but I suspect that sparing the orphanage was something our future children may not thank us for.  I feel we let down poor Winston, too, despite the fact that we obliterated slightly less than seven million totally innocent murdering Huns. Knowing the orphanage stood unscathed was hard, but the loss of Buttocks Bottomley and his mount was a cruel sorrow to us all. However, we had to put these setbacks behind us and move on because,  quite frankly, there were a whole bunch of Pommy sheilas hanging round the barracks when we got back, all gagging for a fuck off of us heroes.”