Anyway… I was interested in this stuff and went to see a psychometric extrapolator or whatever they are. She lived in a gypsy caravan and did the readings there. My, ahem, friend went there and did one of them time warp things and found out that in a past life she had been a handmaiden to Queen Arabella of Phrenolia and before that she was a royal cat in a Cretan crypt. Crept in for a crap but was lucky enough to creep out again so continuing her line.

I wanted to know what salubrious positions I held in a former life.

It’s marvelous the way they do it. They put you in a trance and then do a core sample of your wallet or something. Anyway, she couldn’t put me in a trance ‘cause I kept trying to eyeball her cleavage that was somewhat exposed by her voluminous, semi-transparent caftan thingy. She snuck round behind me and just when I thought she was going to massage my neck she whacked me on the back of the skull with a frying pan off her stove. I fell into a trance.

Then she went to work on my wallet. I’m guessing she probably found my dole cheque because in a former life, I, apparently, instead of being the King of Sweden, was a lowly arse-wiper to a councillor in some TurdBerg of a joint just before the beginning of the Dark Ages. I think it was the Forgot To Pay The Light Bill Ages. Anyway…. I survived the black plague because I had handled so much shit I was immune to every germ known to Middle Earth at the time.

I wasn’t, however, immune to being whacked on the skull with a sock full of wet sand and shipped off to the colonies. But I’m ahead of my self.

She also found out that I was a shitkicker way back in the Roman days. My job was to kick the horseshit out of the way of the important people coming behind me.

Then, In the Still Light Enough To See Ages, I was the news reporter when King Canute held his audience with the sea. Canute was a proper cnut and shouted at the sea, “Look here, you useless bucket of fish piss, stay out of my rum or I’ll kick arse so hard you won’t be able to crack a sand bar for weeks.”

The ocean was no slouch and answered back smartly: “Dial this toll-free number for immediate delivery of your circulation machine to get rid of ugly cankles. And make sure you have enough life insurance but not enough to constitute a death wish.”  Then it lifted a watery arm and threw a stinking lump of ambergris in his face. Of course, the subbies at the paper had a go at the story after I filed it and it was watered down somewhat as history tells but you can take it from me, etc, etc.

Then, after I was transported to the colonies. Look, if you can’t follow this I will explain. A person’s time-line is like a piece of string. And mine was left in the third drawer down in the kitchen dresser so it is pretty tangled and knotted. Now, shut up and let me get on with it.

Right!  Ned Kelly. No!  I wasn’t Ned Kelly. I was the receptionist at the dentist surgery where Ned presented himself with a raging toothache.  

“Take a seat,” I said, flinging Colonial Times at his bucket, “…and read this – if you can. The dentist will be with you in five minutes.”

Ned sad down, whingeing and griping and sniffling like a feckin’ schoolboy.

“Mr. Kelly,” says I - in my former life - .”…the handle is still on the bucket, is it not?”

“Aye,” he said, shooting off both my ears with his revolver.

“Well,” says I, in my former, life, “… if you take the handle out of your gob your teeth might not give you so much grype.”

“To be fekken sure, you handsome betch, you’ve saved me a pretty penny as well as a Bob and Zac, Iff'n I know this thieving hound of a feckin’ gum butcher you work for.” Then he shot me in the inkwell with his rifle and rode off.

Just then, the dentist came back from the pub and fired me for losing him the money to pay the next instalment on his Cobb and Co luxury coach. Shamed and prostituted, I threw meself off the Sydney Harbour bridge and landed on an old sea captain having a tug for morning tea who gave birth to the next generation of us, which eventually became me in this life: A worthless shitkicker.

This is a weekend for swingers... Lindy Hoppers, Bal-Boa-ers and jitterbuggers. Speaking of jittery bugs, before we tell you what you should be doing this weekend, let me tell you this:

There are times when – I swear that - the ‘person’ who organises life and what happens to you really does have it in for me.
I get woken early this morning by a cacophony of squawking. Take the torch outside to see the chookhouse subsiding into the back yard.
Got the council inspector out for a look. He says the back yard is riddled with wormholes; riddled! He emphasized. Need to get an animal technician to have a look.
Animal technician says, yep, it’s wormholes to the ’N’th degree. Never seen it as bad; you’ve got hyperactive earthworms.
What the fug?
He sniffs round the back yard… Your compost heap? He asks.
What do you reckon?
Mostly coffee grinds and pizza crusts?
What do you reckon?
Worms've been eating the coffee grounds, mate. Too much coffee’s no good for earthworms. You’ve amped them up something cruel. Gotta report this.
What the …??
Cruelty to Animals mob is called in and the earthworms inspected and interviewed. One worm couldn’t even give his name he was so jittery; another worm bit the interviewer on the ankle. Now I’m in the poo.
Telling the next door neighbour about it.
Nothing like that over my side of teh fence, says the retired RAF major colonel chappie. Wouldn’t drink the muck,.
What muck?
Coffee!  Only drink tea. Earl Gray! And that’s all that’s on my compost heap, Earl Gray tea leaves… not bags, mind you; only leaf tea.
‘CRASH”
What the Dickens…..!!! exclaimed the  RAF major colonel chappie, turning to look in his own back yard. Good Graziers, he added. Would you look at that! My earthworms have smashed the cucumber frame with a croquet ball.The blighters!

Anyway...here's the music forecast.

SO... Friday Night is happening!. We got Amber Joy Poulton and The Holy Men doing the Honky Tonk Angels show at the Cathedral Hortel in North Adelaide. Starts at 8.30. MIght be sold out but if you smile and bat your wallet at the guy on the door he might let you in.

Saturday March 6.... the Kings of Swing, the Lieutenants of the Lindy Hop, the Brigadiers of the Balboa, the... the......the Jeeps of Jive - no the Jesuses of Jive... NO! The Jenerals of Jive (thats' better) The Blues Avenue Trio will be stomping and flailing all over the floor at the Duke of Brunswick Hotel in Gilbert Street. Bring your dancing shoes or don't even bother to come!

 Then - wait for it, there's more - then, on Sunday March 7 The Blues Avenue Trio will step up to the microwaves at the Coopers 1862 Wine Underground Bar in Pirie Street Adelaide and rip the bag again. Sunday's 5-8pm sessison will feature a "special" guest, Jeff Algra rhythms on drums. Why? Because he's shit-hot, that's why. Not because he's "special".

Now, if anybody else has a gig -- too bad. The ones listed above are where we want you to be. 

But if you're not into jumping up and down like a caffiene addicted worm while sweating like a stick of dynamite on a terrorist's belt.. then go to this: On Ego,  starring Patrick Frost, Michael Hill and Ksenja Logos

Directed and Designed by Michael Hill and TheimaGen, it is on at the Hartley Playhouse, UniSA Magill from March 5th - 6th, 8pm,  March 8th - 13th, 8pm;  March 11th - 12th, 1pm. There is a preview March 5. Go to here for tickets and stuff.That's Brian the Brain on the left  who is the unlikely star of the show. Maybe his name isn't brian.... maybe it's.... it's..... Basil. That's it... Basil Brain. Or Milton. I don't know, to be honest; I thought it was a pickled walnut when I first saw it.