My great old mate the Spandex Wearing Former Rock Star – on whose pool table I left my mark on at New Year’s Eve, when utilising the spider I banked a triple off the cushion into the bottom left pocket, in the process knocking his glass of ’87 vintage Shiraz onto the table, or at least that’s what he and his adoring acolyte the Bead Twirler reckon; I personally say that he was just flooding the felt as an excuse to abandon play and call the shoot-out a draw, thus avoiding yet another of his 3 decade run of crushing defeats at the hand of the Arch – is playing a gig in the Valley at the end of this month.
You would be a dead set super-sized sucker to miss it, and not because you might miss out on gawking at Spandex’s boyish good looks – they are long, long gone – or because you might be passing up the opportunity to perv on his paleontologist princess of a missus – although you’d be mad to miss her mister, and don’t you worry about that – but rather because the blokes in the band that the faded superstar and his mates are supporting have played more than somewhat with Willie.
Now when I talk about Willie I don’t here mean Spandex’s tiny little fella that’s always on his mind, but rather the real deal, the Angel Who Flies Too Close to the Ground, Mr Willie Hugh Nelson, the man of my dying mother’s dreams, and the cowboy who’s beautiful ballad Blue Eyes Crying in the Rain will be one day playing as the old girl I loved before all others is slowly lowered into the ground.
Of course it won’t be Willie playing in the old underground Terminus gay bar in the Valley where Spandex once used to be such a swell (that and a bit more), for at the grand old age of 82 young Mr Nelson don’t get around overseas much anymore, but it will indeed be one of the great man’s favorite bands the Supersuckers, those crazy country rock motherf*cker’s that the bandanna wearing pension-age genius tells the mad-arse joke about at the top of this post.
Only a mug would miss this underground gig, which promises to be the drug-free kick of the century, and a few year millennium falcon’s beyond too, if drug-free kicks happen to be your thing you boring old puritan bastards.
Me and Spandex?
Well call us Bunger boys you might, but we prefer football to fifty bags of fluffy grass, and yeah there’s a lot of ice pipes around; but when you line all the Persian Rugs up together, well ladies and lube lovers, the footy bloody wins hands down.
A speedball full of the footy, the Silver Dukes, the Supersuckers, a smidgen of Spandex, and a Schooner of Brisbane Bitter anyway.
So get up there to the gig or be crazy sportsfans, and get in there and at ’em and suck a bit of the best soup in town Cazaly.