Haven’t read much about Amy Winehouse in the glossy toilet papers recently – she must be on a drying-out cure or something. Anyway, and so this is Christmas, and we are the world, but I was wondering do they know it’s Christmas and if they don’t, well, perhaps they’re not Christians and maybe we shouldn't bother them with this silly santa claus stuff… eh?

I was busy doing nothing in particular and missed telling you Acoustic Scandal was gigging up in the Barossa, Angaston, and I was too late to tell you that Thursday December 22 Sweet Baby James and Rob Eyers  were at the Gilbert Hotel. They will be at the Exeter on Rundle next Monday I think.

But… I have to show you this…..

That’s right; the Fat Elvises go Gold for the Big Fat Elvis Birthday Potty at the Governor Hindmarsh Hotel of January 6.  The king of Cheese Chad Romero and the cheese sticks or whoever his band is will also be there and it will be a heaving, sweating hoot with the Elvises guaranteed to offend every strata of the populace slice. If you are thin skinned or inclined towards Political Correctness don’t bother and because you’ve been warned you will not get your money back.

If however, you like a laugh at other people’s expense, book NOW at the Gov. website. It will be more fun than a handful of hexbugs in your gusset. See: http://www.thegov.com.au/gig-guide.html

I’m sure there’s more gigs going  on and no doubt more notices will filter in and I will hoist them up here.

Meanwhile…

I’m staying out the Christmas business this year. Season of goodwill and all that is fine but sometimes your efforts can come back to bite you on the bum or even make a mess on your carpet. Take last year, for example. Couple of days before Christmas I was having a beer at the Magill Club when my peaceful nothingness was interrupted by a loud sigh and the sound of a heavy arse suffocating a stool.

“Santa!” I sez. “What’s up your nose?”

“Them fukken reindeer is up my nose, is what!” he snarled. “I’m up to my fukken ears repairing tons of Chinese-made crap before dropping them off to all the little kiddies around the world and the reindeer are bored. Rudolf is tryin’ to root Vixen and Cupid; that pair of puddle-jumpers Prancer and Dancer are teasing Blitzen and he’s getting snarly…. I’ve fukken had it with them. I’m thinking of shooting the lot of them and getting a Range Rover with a jet engine to do the job.”

I was feeling magnanimous. I’d had a sufficiency of grog and the idea of a lonely hovel was not appealing. “I can look after the little bastards for yer,” I sez. “Give me somethin’ to do and you can get on with your work.  Just until you’re ready to rock and roll.”

“I’d be very grateful,” sed Santa and went on a bit about what they need and din't need but quite honestly as far as I was concerned I’d done me good deed by making the generous offer and I never heard another thing unit the buggers rocked up at my door.

“Come in, Come in…” I sez waving me arms around. “ I was expecting yez….”

I got them settled into a game of Monopoly and a couple of slabs of Coopers Pale. All went well till the arguments started.  That fukken Comet bought some houses for Mayfair and Park Lane and with a bit of sleight of paw they had become hotels. Donna went bankrupt and reckoned the banker was bent… that was Dasher and he was fiddling the books… So  I called a halt to the game and we got stuck into some vittles. I’d laid down a couple of vats of silage which I spiced up with a tonne of fermenting chillies.  They got stuck into that with Double Cheese Doritos and then someone wanted Indian so I curried the rest of it and when we finished the beer we started on the sticky stuff, Crème De Menthe and whatever I had left. 

Santa rang and said he was ready to go so I bundled the lot of them into a Des’ maxi-cab and never thought another thing about it until 3 am Christmas morning. That’s when I was rudely kicked out of bed by the creature from the sewerage pond.

“What did you feed those fukken reindeer?” demanded the large disgusting shit-slathered thing.

“Bit of this … bit of that. Why?”

“The bastards have had galloping diarrhoea since we left the North Pole and I’m in the fukken shit-stream.  I don’t know what’s in it but the stuff is burning my eyes and my nostrils and I’m shit-scared to yell Ho Ho Ho, Merry fukken Christmas Everybody for fear and getting me tonsils burned out by a gobful of the rancid muck! I told you not to feed the buggers!" ” he shouted, shaking his fist and scattering crap everywhere.

“Er…. Do you mind; that’s going on my carpet,” I sed.

Prolly was the wrong thing because he went ballistic and flung the stuff all over the room, then he scraped the muck of his duds and crammed it into my Christmas stockings. It was very unpleasant. I had to flood, fumigate and repaint the room and then I made a vow to never get involved in Christmas again.

I saw him at the club, looking all frazzled last night, but I just tipped my glass to him and turned my back. Anyway, he can just go and get fukked as far as I’m concerned; I’m just about over mythical quasi-religious philanthropic beings.