We're back. So many things have happened lately that I can't begin tell you here, so I won't. But I will tell yer this: I was arrested for chilled prawnography - it was the best photograph of a frozen banana prawn I ever done. 

GIGS!!!!! ..... This Friday Night Double Wammy will be rocking The Wheatie at Thebarton. That's right: Double Wammy... the Wheatie... Thebarton... be there.... Friday December 9.

Saturday December 10 and it's pan!c at the Norwood Hotel... the Ol' Finn McCool's. Last Saturday was a blast so come along this week to get hit by the shrapnel. pan!c cranks up at 9 pm.

Sunday December 11... after last Sunday' exciting and also rocking CDS launch (All Through The NIght) the Texettes are replaying the show at the Whitmore Hotel on Sunday Arvo. Starating around 2.30; knocking orf around 5-ish the Texettes will have for you Helen and Terry (the core Texettes) Jeff Algra on Drums, Denis Surmon bass, Sam WHite on keyboards and Sam Leske on guitars. The show wfeature a guesappearaceeby Terry Jones on Sax. You will be remisto miss the show; it's a great lin-up and the songs are.... songy.

Just fukken get there. And it's free to get in, so... get in.

9 Friday 5pm: Double Wammy

10 Saturday 12 - 3pm: Ceramic & glass Sale in the tin shed; 9pm: Charles Jenkins

11 Sunday 4pm: The elite accordion ensemble

Folk Federation Gigs:

The Folk Federation: Sat 10th Dec ~ 8pm - A NIGHT OF COUNTRY MUSIC AND BLUEGRASS. Still at the George Street Thebarton address.

This is a little out of date but who cares, no-one reads it anyway.

I was sitting on the floor in the Laundromat, head in hands, pondering the linoleum when something poked my leg and a voice said: “Hey, I know what you’re thinking…”

I lifted my eyes and saw an ugly little elf staring at me. I guess he wasn’t that ugly; I’ve seen worse things in the zoo… and then there’s the weird-looking animals, too.

“If you do know what I’m thinking,” I sez, “…how come you’re still here?”

“That’s because you only just thought of thinking me away; I meant: what you were thinking just before I said ‘hey..’ “

“So fukken what?”

“So… I’m a magic elf and I know what you’re thinking, and.... I can grant you a wish to make it come true.

“So, if I wished you’d stuff your head up yer arse.....”

“That would be a waste of a perfectly good wish. Come now, my sad chappie. I know what you were thinking and I have granted you a wish to make it come true. Take a look in that clothes dryer…”

“Ahhh, shit!  You haven’t shrunk me fukken chinos have you, you little k***?”

“If they were made in China they would shrink on a humid day. No… nothing like that .... they are now magic pants; configured to perform the task you require of them.”

“Oh yeah… and what task is that…?”

“I told you I’m a magic elf; I knew exactly what you whished for.”

“Sez you… but what’s the catch?”

“No catch… unless you count the usual Cinderella clause; you must be home and have the duds off by close of business. I’m not sure how they manage late night shopping hours but a little cautious testing will sort that out. Now, I must be off, gotta help a dragon with piles. Toodle-ooo!”

And he vanished. Now, I wondered, did that fukken midget busybody really know what I was a-thinking and a-wishing for? Did he know that I had been accidentally given a gold pass invitation to the opening of a new super-posh overly-pretentious shopping mall designed to intimidate and alienate losers like me? And did he know that I was wondering how I could go into every one of the gilded ‘specialist shops’ and surreptitiously drop a guff that would leave behind a horrid stench that would forever stain the psyche of the joint, like an acrid-smelling ghost fart that would haunt each joint forever and curl the lips of their customers into a supercilious sneer... while I got away undetected? A true fart and depart with a no-blame-no shame guarantee?

I didn’t know, but it was worth giving is a shot. I dragged on the duds, gobbled down a garlic yiros and presented myself at the shit-fight. Clutching my odd little bottle of free champagne I wandered casually into the first of the grim Aladdin’s caves and poked around aimlessly. When the moment was right I squeezed out a butt-bark that would have etched the inscription off a marble headstone.

But nothing happened. No noise, no smell. A kind of nothingness. I began to suspect that the little k*** might of been right so I gently sidled out of the place and waited. The seconds ticked by. One minute and then all hell broke loose in that shop. I smiled wide. They worked fine. The magic pants filtered out the noise and converted the pong into ghostly time bomb. They were just what I was wishing for.

From there on I had fun;  not one of those joints was safe. I gobbled Sauerkraut, preserved ham, curried eggs, chilli con carne and frijoles, baked beans, every stinking, gut-stretching foodstuff I could get my hands on was gobbled and converted into ammo for the duds. Delirious with joy, I strolled in and out of each of the temples of  mammon leaving behind a nasty surprise.  I could gauge the success of my efforts by the increasing sightings of supercilious sneers and surprised, watering eyes. I had so much fun I forgot about the Cinderella clause.

I didn’t realise the festivities had overrun ‘close if business’ hours and almost too late snapped to attention realising I had only minutes to get away before the duds reverted to their original form.  Judging, however, that I had enough time I departed casually, joining the bus queue with the workers to go home and laugh like drain when, all of a sudden, I heard a little ‘ting’ from the dudal area.

Ah, well; time’s up, thought I, grinning at the memory of the devastation I was leaving when suddenly, out of my duds came the most horrendous thundering garble of raspberries followed by the stench of a thousand dead camels and then... worst of all,  a bucket of kack... No…buckets of the stuff.  I must of followed through on some of my more superior efforts which, courtesy of the magic pants, had been safety stowed somewhere in magic cyber-space. They were now returning and my chino pant legs filled with the stuff and spewed two rivers of reeking sewerage around my feet.

The bus queue spread out like swimmers from a shark attack; the bus door was slammed in my face and was left to shuffle home, squelshing putridly with every step. Fukken magic pants. Next magic elf I see is gonna get booted to kingdom come.