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Steve Brown Band supported by Workers.... club Print E-mail
Thursday, 21 May 2015

Sample ImageThe Steve brown Band comes a rumbling and rolling into the Semaphore Workers’ Club This Friday May 22.

The Semaphore Workers Club is the Home of Blues and Roots music in South Australia. The Steve Brown Band is the Home of Steve Brown and His Band.





Sample Image   Down south, The Crew will be playing the EMU Hotel at Morphett Vale on Friday May 22








Sample ImageAdelaide Music Collective honours Jazz

Adelaide Music Collective – known as the AMC -  pays tribute to the SA heroes of Jazz.  On Friday 29th May the collective is proud to present well known and well loved SA Jazz outfit the Mike Stewart Big Band, featuring Bob Jeffery. A posthumous SA Music Hall of Fame Award will be bestowed upon the group's namesake, who passed away suddenly in 2014. In support on the night are the Marmalade Trio, The New Cabal and Bill Polain.  Keith Conlon takes over inductions for the SA Music Hall of Fame, with big shoes to fill after the recent passing of Hall of Fame founder David 'Daisy' Day. Inductees on the night include Mike Stewart (P), Bob Jeffery, Hal Hall, Bob Hower and Bill Polain. A night not to be missed.

Tickets: Trybooking.com/129864








There are a few interesting Gallipoli centenary events running at the St Peter’s Town Hall. Try Saturday May 23 about 2 pm for this week’s event:

Saturday Soirée: A Tribute to Carl Linger & ‘Song of Australia’

Dr Jula Szuster of the Elder Conservatorium in conjunction with performing artists Tessa Miller & Glenys March will pay tribute to the gifted German composer Carl Linger. It is poignant to remember that Carl Linger composed the music for the Song of Australia which became a battle hymn during the Great War. Dr Jula Szuster will present an insight into this complex and talented 19th century composer and his life. Bookings essential as places are limited.
Event details:
Dates & times: Saturday 23 May, 2-4pm
Location: Banquet Hall, St Peters Town Hall, 101 Payneham Rd, St Peters
Bookings to the Cultural Heritage Centre on 83340262 / 83664612 or Email This e-mail address is being protected from spam bots, you need JavaScript enabled to view it or This e-mail address is being protected from spam bots, you need JavaScript enabled to view it


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And: John Schumann and the vagabond Crew done this: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=KE3PiObOxJQ&feature=youtu.be







Here is a unique experience:  Come on a bus tour with Amber Joy and the Holy Men across the length, breadth and thickness of the Yorke Peninsula.

Share the rollicking fun of being on tour with a bunch of hippie, drug-taking freaks, hear the disgusting jokes, eat shit food and enjoy communal farting…. HHey... it sounds so good we'd like to be on the bus with you but we have to go with the gear trailer. Well, anyway, here is the proper information in the form of a poster stuck up the country somwhere:

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 Gold..... don't forget the Gold:

 Sample ImageFantastic line-up on this show... a bit like Cruisin' Country comes to the City.

If you can't read the fine print, and I certainly can't from here, it sort of says:  Amber Joy Poulton; Sandra Humphries; Jim Hermel and his running away dickie... er... Dixie;  Charlie McCracken (His brother Phil couldn't make it); Gary Daniel; Graeme Hugo (award winning author???); The Sherrahs; the Holy Men (thank glob); Taylor Pfieffer and Gary Borroughs.

All in one place, one after the other. Singing a number of gold country hits.

It says 'Spectacular". I confess the Holy Men are not all that 'spectacular' but I was thinking I could maybe stick a roman candle up my arse and light the wick. If it all goes well enough that might go some way towards living up to the 'spectacular' claim.

Anyway, Book now.

 You heard  me - BOOK NOW!!!!











 Here come the Freakin' Kowboys

Sample ImageThe Krusty Cowboy Klub is doing something towards getting ready for its next massive show at the Marion Cultural Centre. We are thinking about it. Sadly, however, the only culture we can bring to the salubrious Marion venue is now resistant to penicillin but, hey, it’s a short life so why not be a cowboy?  I should put that in the local patois: Yer gonna kick the bucket before you know it, mate, so why not be a cowbloke (or cowsheila - for those not packing a pink pistol)?

The show is part of the Out Of The Square season so if you know how to get onto that... do so. The Krusty Cowboys are always good for a laugh. Not much else, but a laugh is ok these days. Don't get many of them to the dollar now.





Sample ImageWhat else… oh, yes. pan!c the band will be running Geek Pop Quiz Nights at La Boehme during the Cabaret Fringe Festival.   June 4, 18 and 19.

Three shows for now but more shows may be added if other pop-quiz arses are begging for seats. Get onto the Cabaret Fringe thingo for bookings. And get a fukkn move on! Do I have to do every fukken thing for you?






Sample ImageJune 5 – getting ahead of meself now – June 5 at the Semaphore Workers’ Club will present a top evening of entertainment with the Red Hot Blues Band because they – the Red Hot Blues Band – are hot, and they play bluesy music in the Workers’ Club. 9 pm kick orf. It’s always a great night at the workers club except when it’s closed; then things can be a bit quiet.







Rock and Roll……

These two posters tell it all but the gist is May 24, the good ol' Buddies at the Grange Bowling Club and on May 30 the Party cats at Westward Ho….

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The gardeners

The attack, when it came, was vicious, nasty and although not unexpected, surprising in its ferocity.
My name is Dan Gardiner. With my cousin Neil Gardiner we are a garden maintenance and troubleshooting team. We had been called out to old man Sullivan’s joint to clean up the yard and take care of some garden gnomes that had turned the yard into their own domain, forcing Mr Sullivan to cower inside the house. His only exit was by the slowly narrowing garden path to the front gate down which he had to run the gauntlet of kicking and biting terrazzo terrorists just to get his junk mail and bills.
Some garden gnomes can be little pricks.
Sullivan’s problem started when he began mucking around with the old witch Hazel Grebe from Barlow Street. Sullivan wanted some golden years’ fun to satisfy his infrequent but sturdy priapism,   Hazel wanted to play along, get engaged, marry, move in and become co-owner of Sullivan’s property and retirement investments and then smother the wrinkly twerp with a pillow – the Tontine solution. Sullivan, once his lust had abated, baulked at commitment. Witch Hazel cursed his garden gnomes.
This sort of stuff happens more often than you get to hear about in the messenger press.
So Sullivan’s garden was now a jungle, a tangle of distorted bushes and reedy grass higher than an Amazon’s nipples.
I had the whipper-snipper set on slash while Neil was on a ladder breaking down some of the gnarled trees with a chainsaw.
The first attack came from a nuggetty red-hatted little horror that rushed out of a bush near the reeds I was slashing and started gnawing on my leg. I screamed. Well… it gave me a fright ... ok?
Whirling around, I struck at the little fukr with the line trimmer and made him squeal as the nylon cord whipped into his rosy-cheeked, ugly little puss.
Neil, hearing the fracas, revved his saw to finish the bough and come to my aid when a blocky little bugger of a gnome in a blue beret dashed out from behind a knot of briars and smashed into the ladder, upending it and sending Neil tumbling.
Back at the reed-bed I heard Neil’s scream as the saw whined and then nothing. Eerie silence.  I left off the fight and ran over to look.
The saw had swung through the air on the end of Neil’s arm as he fell and cut off his head... clean.
“Neil...” I yelled: "Quick... let’s get you to the hospital, now! Throw everything into the truck!”
I tied a tourniquet around Neil’s' neck stump and we grabbed up the whipper snipper, the chain saw and Neil’s head, threw it all in the compost trailer and raced to the hospital.
At the emergency entrance I pushed Neil onto a gurney and snatched his head from the trailer. At frantic speed I wheeled the whole bundle into an operating theatre shouting to the doctors: “Quick...stitch this back on Neil’s neck....!!  We're in the middle of a heavy job!”
“Well...” says the quack, casting a glance over the gurney....  "OK. But it will take a while... at least fifteen minutes to do a decent job. Why don’t you have a cup of coffee and see us in the recovery ward.”
I sat nervously, roiling with the hope that I had done what I could for Neil.
Shortly, another quack or something appeared and said that I may now visit Neil who was apparently sitting up in bed.
I walked into his ward and was shocked into silence. I should have paid more attention when I was offloading him at the hospital. The quacks had stitched Neil’s chainsaw onto his neck. I must have picked it up in my haste and his head must still be sitting on top of the compost in the trailer!!
Horrified, I appealed to the doctor...
“Well…” he began. “It seems to be all right. It still runs ok. Here, let me pull the cord....”
The quack pulled the cord and Neil’s chainsaw head went: rarrarrrarrrr!
Neil put his thumb up and a glint flashed off his petrol tank.
“Well...Ok,” I said. “Fair enough. He was never much of a talker. When can I take him?”
The quack squirted some oil on Neil’s chain and sprayed wd40 around the plug and said: “He looks fit enough to me so you might as well take him now!”

In the truck on the way back to Old Man Sullivan’s place I asked Neil: "We’ll get even with the little bastards, Neil, but…. are you up for this mate?"
Neil nodded his chainsaw head and tugged on his cord to let me know he was raring to go.
When we got to Sullivan’s joint I changed the whipper snipper cord for stainless-steel hawser; topped up Neil’s petrol tank and kicked open the garden gate...... it was on!
We had those little fukkers running and screaming with terror. I slashed the little bastards across the arse and Neil swung his chainsaw head hacking off little gnome hats and stray limbs. It was a joy to hear the little shits scream and cry.
The gnomes fought back low and dirty but we were getting the upper hand when, suddenly, into the fray stepped a nude concrete cherub holding his little willie in his hands and pissing all over the place. He strained and squirted his piss high in the air over Neil and the chainsaw went silent... the piss had shorted out the spark plug.
Alarm showed in Neil’s petrol tank face and his cooling blades quivered with fear as the tiny three terrors from the undergrowth, sensing a weakness, turned all their hatred and snapping concrete hands towards him
“NO!” I shouted: “Neil! ...... Run!”
And then something weird happened... the dead eyes opened!  Yes... Neil's head, sitting on top of the compost heap in the trailer awoke...the eyes opened and searched for the source of the cry for help.  The eyes saw Neil’s plight and then, slowly but menacingly,  the compost heap, with Neil’s head now melded onto the top, snarling and grunting, rose from the trailer and formed itself into a perambulating monstrous mass that crawled out of the trailer on shaggy, whispering limbs, across the driveway and into the yard. The ragged, hulking compost heap rustled evilly -  a murky, mouldy rustle with the gagging whiff of decay and macerated dog shit -  and the gnomes, they now sensing concern, turned to face their decomposing doom. They froze and blanched. No reds, no blues no cheery Irish green – just white, pasty concrete. The pissing cupid shat himself.  I yelled: "YEAH!!!! You’re dead, you little fukkers!!!"  And I and the compost monster laid into them while Neil pulled frantically on his cord.
Watching from the veranda, old man Sullivan eyeballed the situation and understood what was required.  He dashed inside the house only to return in a moment with a bottle of Metho which he tossed to Neil... "Your need is greater than mine," he yelled, "I can drink rum!"
Neil sloshed the Metho on the spark plug and waved his chainsaw head frantically to evaporate the stuff and the piss all the while pulling on his cord. Then.... rrrraaarararararrrrrarrrrrarrrrrrr! The saw fired up.
Neil’s chain screamed gleefully with the anticipation of dealing death and he leaned forward into the melee.
Oh boy; man, oh, man! What murderous fun we had.  Hacked those little turds to pieces and I split their heads with a pick.
Old man Sullivan cheered from the veranda as we went around the yard ripping up every shrub and bush, tossing every tyre and washing machine into the trailer. Then we rolled the whole yard with instant grass.
We stood back to survey the end result.
"Not bad," said Old Man Sullivan... “You know, the way you handled them little bastards and sorted out my yard, well, you make a good team. I can give you blokes some hot recommendations; there’s a few of us got tangled up with that old witch – she’s a bit of a goer, you know.”
And I looked at the three of us...  a rare-looking trio if ever there was and I had to agree... we did make a pretty good team:

The Gardiners – Extreme Gardeners.

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