The Mighty 3, Armageddon at Fidel’s, missing fukwit
Published: October 4, 2018
Through the past, darkly…. sort of.
Well, a nostalgic look at music stuff.
Saturday October 13, The Mount Compass Supper Club presents:
The Power of the Mighty ‘3’
Hendrix, Janis and Cream
In the mid 60s a volcanic eruption in the world of pop music changed the landscape in a way that has defied the ravages of time when three incendiary artists emerged: Cream – 3 virtuoso Blues/pop musicians who fought their way up and down the charts with their constantly evolving blues rock sound, Jimi Hendrix; still claimed to be one of the most influential guitar players of all time – a big statement but there is no doubt he stands alone in living memory as the bloke who ‘really played guitar’!… and Janis Joplin who took the heart and emotion of Gospel and Soul music and crossed it with a chainsaw.
It was a brief but massively influential impact on popular music that has never been repeated…. etc etc…. Until NOW!!!!!!
On October 13, the Mount Compass Supper Club presents a tribute to those three rock music icons with the Power of the Mighty ‘3’, performed by David Rhodes on guitars, Rob Eyers on drums, Denis Surmon on bass and vocals and Gini Hobson on vocals.
Book Book Book. Seating is cabaret style and limits apply.
The Mt Compass Supper Club has a Very Reasonably Priced Bar….
Off-highway parking, free dunnies…. all the mod cons you’ve come to expect from a concert venue.
ARMAGEDDON at FIDEL’S BAR
Sunday, October 28. Blue Ring Records presents an afternoon of sombre and no longer at Fidel’s Bar.
There will be a performance of ‘Whoopee, We’re all going to Die!’ – a protest song singalong. Yes, singalong. The audience will be asked…in some cases ‘cudgelled’ – if we have to – into singing, as we reel out some famous and not so famous anti-war whinges. Somber.
And for the No Longer bit we will have Mr Explosion himself, Ian Mitchell, sonically detonating himself with all the artistry he can muster. On a Sunday afternoon. Half-full of piss. Can only hope!
And the clean-up will be provided by An Acoustic Scandal – with special guests ( namely: Surmon from the Armageddon bit and maybe even Ian Mitchell – if we can find all the pieces of him.)
Also on the bill will the Steve Charles band – original alternative groove roots folk.
Make sure you chew that 32 times before swallerin’!!
I suggest you put some money in the box at the door at Fidel’s as this kind of entertainment doesn’t come cheap.
It might look and sound cheap but that’s not the same thing.
The case of the missing fukwit
An evolving mystery has pressured Inspector LeStrides from Scotland Backyard to engage the services of two of the worlds’ best known detectives: Doris McMarple, arrogant snoop from the little highland village of St. Fookin’ Mary the Headless Bitch in the Fookin’ Glen and Hercules Pernod, sirop-sipping, know-it-all twat-dodger.
“I’ve called you here to discuss the disappearance of the Mad Abbot from the front pages of the Murrrderoch Gazettes. He was all over the joint in the limited news arsewipers up till the leadership ’spill’, now he’s nowhere to be seen … or heard,” complained LeStrides.
“You called me away from me Haggis Hunt because you’re worried about that weapons-grade numpty???? I’ve a guid mind to blow your fookin’’ heid off!” screams Doris, waggling her double-barrel shotgun at LeStrides.
“Careful Madam…. is that thing loaded?”
“A course it is, y’ porridge-brained dildodong; d’ye think ye can bring down a rampant haggis by just yelling ‘Bang-Bang’, ye fookin’ pillock! And what are ye looking’ at, you mincing porpoise???”… she directed the last at the moustachioed meatball.
“I, mademoiselle, am aghast at your demeanour… “ replied Pernod, sniffily.
“My ‘demeanour’ …. My Fookin’ De-fookin’-meanour!!!” Roared the haggis muncher. “Och, well, here’s sumpthin’ even fookin’ meaner…. “ she growled as she lifted the front of her kilt. “Eat my badger, you sleekit, fat, French Foodle!”
“Mademoiselle, in my defence, may I say that I am Belgian, not French, and secondly, my mother told me never to eat anything bigger than my head.”
“Ahem, I say,” hemmed LeStrides, interrupting the spirited exchange. “Can we get back to the issue of the missing Mad Abbott…?”
“He’s not ‘missing’,” snapped McMarple. “They’ve just hid that haemorrhoid on the ring-piece of Arsefuk, Dickwank because Murrrderoch has finished with him – for time being – to give the happy-clapper a leg-up. He’ll be fookin’ back when Murrrrderoch says so, fear fookin’ not!”
Pernod raised a questioning digit: “It might be pertinent to enquire as to whom will suffer because of the canine fecal matter’s absence..!”
”Well,” LeStrides offered….”For starters, all the sheep-brained morons that accept Murrrderoch’s fiction as news won’t know what to think about issues trivial and such – what if they start thinking for themselves on things like healthcare, education, the environment, equality, human rights …worker’s rights….. well??? And what about Shotyer Bolt….. he’ll have to go back to sucking his thumb!!!”
“Aye would’na worry too much if I were youse…” snarled McMarple while waggling her shotgun at a couple in a huddle over the road. “See, that’s yon onion-breathed numpty o’er there wi’ his harpy, the Crone Credulous,……”
BLA-BLAM!!!! SPLUDGE, SPLATTER!!! Ooooooze.
“Oops.!”
“Zat was unexpected, Mademoiselle…..”
“Och, aye; hair trigger on this beastie.”
“McMarple,” chastised LeStrides, “ BOTH of them!!!”
“Aye. Double-barrel beastie… loaded with haggis rounds. Still…..”
“Oui, oui!”
“Well, Poo-poo, I say,” snapped McMarple. “Anyway, aye’m off to the Highland caber-tossing competition; McGinty’s got a two-handed whopper that I’m hankerin’ to git a shufti of!!!”
“Au reviour, Mademoiselle. I, too, have meticulous mincing to be undertaken and shopping for moustache cosmetics.”
“I could do with a pie and a pint and let the dogs clean up that mess,” said LeStrides, lighting a Woodbine off the previous one, plonking his hat on his bonce and quickly pissing off.