Lots of stuff going on.  John Schumann and the Vagabond Crew will be in SA doing a couple of gigs next week. They are ticketed events so you need to get in now! The band is pretty gnarly, with Shooey, Hugh McDonald on guitars, Kat Kraus on second vocals, The Preacher on Bass guitar, Alexander Stuart Black on fiddle and mando, Mick Marena on drums and Mal Logan on keys. This flyer gives you the booking details.

Back to this week: Thursday September 15 Sweet Baby James and Rob Eyers at the Gilbert Street Hotel, rolling out the Double Voodoo Blues. Good place to eat, the Gilbert, and a great place for roots and blues music.

Friday September 16 DOUBLE WAMMY at the Wheatsheaf Hotel, Thebarton. Yes, the Wammies return to the Wheatie! Be there at this historic event when Brian Morrison says…. “Can you get the foldback up a bit louder?”

Saturday September 17 and it’s pan!c at the Dan.  Come along for a night of fun and pogoing to some of the questionable ‘hits’ of the 80’s and many other eras as pan!c travels down the Time-ime Tunnel-unnel of nerd rock.

Sunday; there’s a special dedication service to the automated carpark at the local church. Be there when the Most Reverend Toll-gate says: “Your fee for parking while communing with God and some of his family is $7.50 per hour.”

More:

The Whitmore Hotel Presents: Thursday 15^th:  Rainbow Sessions: Join-in Irish Music; Friday September 16 the Rejuvenators; Sunday Arvo: Cripple Creek. Go to http://www.whitmorehotel.com for more information.

Folk Federation Gigs: Lasseters Gold Folk Band  ~ Fri 17^th Septeember ~ 8pm. A night of traditional folk music, sharing songs and providing some opportunities for dancing too! Lasseter’s Gold plays a wide variety of folk music, including Celtic, English, American and contemporary styles.

Looking Ahead: The Beggars at The Wheaty. Recently returned from over-running half the fukken the world and in need of a gutful of Coopers' Pale Ale, the Baggars play the Wheatsheaf Hotel on Saturday September 30.

And here’s a little bit extra, just for being good and reading this far:

I was on an important errand for my father, an errand that took me to darkest Africa.  I had brought a battery powered torch with me but it was still pretty hard to see where I was going. Allow me to tell the tale:

Three weeks of solid trekking got me off the dock at Durban and into the Sailors’ Rest bar, Port Durban.

“Bongo,” I said to my native guide, “I’m fukked; get me a large rum, and see if you can make it even larger.”

“Rum not good for you, Bwana,” he dourly replied. “Will harden your arteries…”

“For God’s sake, man, who wants soft arteries? You need them hard as fukken nails for the kind of task I have in front of me. Now stoop down and let me get on your back. Right… forward march, westward ho; MUSH! and all that…”

And off we went. I wouldn’t like you to think that I took advantage of my strong assistant who toted me through the Dark African bush. I held the torch. And I helped to lighten his load by eating all the biscuits and chocolate cake.

Thousands of bush miles later we lost reception so I threw away the colour TV and the video recorder. I hung on to the Jacuzzi because it was pretty handy to have a nice relaxing hot tub at the end of the day.

“Bongo,” I sez, one day, “I’m fukken fed up with elephants and rhinoserisms; find me a McDonalds.”

He soon pulled off the side of the jungle track and we entered the golden arches. What a fukken shithole. Drug addicts all over the place, and the sheila behind the counter was wearing a dirty birka.

“I can’t eat here, Bongo, “ I sez. “Let’s find somewhere a bit cleaner.”

We went over the jungle path to the Hungry Jacks. Completely different. Nice people, and the sheila behind the counter was wearing a lovely clean birka. “Well, I’ll be fukked, Bongo. The birka’s are better at Hungry Jacks!”

Later, back on job, the trail got harder to follow as the jungle got denser. I’ve never seen a jungle so fukken dense. Couldn’t follow a simple instruction; wouldn’t shut up.

Despite my good intentions, I did not comply absolutely with my father’s wishes. I did the best I could and returned home the following March treading wearily into the house.

“Your father’s in the bathrom,” Mum sed. “He’s waiting for you.”

Dad had his head in the cabinet under the bathroom sink.

“Father,” I said. “I tried to do what you asked but I have not been as successful as I had hoped I’d be. Here… take this….”
I handed him the title deeds to a flourishing African ostrich farm as he dragged his creaking body out from under the sink.

“What’s this…?” he demanded, his long dusty beard waggling angrily.

“The title deeds to a million acre ostrich farm in Africa, Sir,” I said sharply. “I could not find a monkey ranch.”

He smacked me soundly over the ear. WHACK! “Are ya fukken deaf as well as stoopid?” he shouted. “I asked you for a monkey wrench, you pillock!” and took another swing at me.

A lesser man would have quailed under such an assault. But I am not a lesser man; I ducked, and the silly old fukker overbalanced and fell headfirst into the dunny that hadn’t been flushed for nearly a year since I went away. Fuk ‘im; he can bring his own tools next time I ask him to fix the fukken sink.