WHOO whoo! Any Scorpions fans out there?! God, I hope not.

Every time I make a disparaging comment about any metal band - even one as lightweight as The Scorpions - I inevitably end up cornered against the fruit machine in some godforsaken drinking hole by irate metallurgists in moldering Scorpions t-shirts demanding that I acknowledge the uncanny brilliance of Michael Schenker ... or the entirely unremarkable competence of Rudolf Schenker, etc.

Mercifully, The Scorpions have almost nothing to do with this page, other than the thought-provoking coincidence of nomenclature which brings The New Scorpion Band (Chetnole village hall, tonight, (01935) 872821; Langton Matravers village hall, Friday, (01929) 426654; Martinstown village hall, Saturday, (01305) 889995; Tarrant Keyneston village hall, Sunday, (01258) 480778) into our orbit.

You couldn't get further away from Teutonic soft metal if you were to strap yourself to a Saturn V booster and shoot yourself into deep space: The New Scorpion Band specialise in traditional folk music performed on a bewildering diversity of acoustic instruments, and are adept enough to have been spending the last wee while at the National Theatre, no less, providing music for an Alan Ayckbourn season.

Keen-eyed couch potatoes - couch potatoes with eyes, I suppose - will also be able to spot them in the forthcoming ITV production of The Mayor Of Casterbridge ...

The New Scorpion Band's mini-tour - or tourette, if you will - of Dorset village halls is brought to you under the umbrella title of The Christmas Goose, 'a delicious and savoury seasonal recipe of midwinter songs and carolling dance tunes.' Dorset-bred-and-buttered Tim Laycock leads the proceedings, and the whole shootin' match is robustly recommended to anyone like myself whose Christmas spirit needs a bit of a bump start ...

Before we proceed any further, I must pass on my thanks to the kind souls who pilot the sleek craft Corophilia for finally providing the Lonergan and myself with an official spelling for the band's name: Corophilia, just like that. Our confusion stems from (a) an inability to read handwriting through our cataracts and hangovers and (b) the fact that no such word appears to exist in either of our dog-eared dictionaries. Until recently, we tended to assume that the band's name was actually coprophilia - 'an abnormal interest in faeces and defecation' - which, on reflection, probably says more about us than anyone else. I do apologise.

While I'm down here in the kneeling supplicant position, flailing at my own back with a pair of Rael Brook braces and eating dirt for penance, I must also apologise to anyone who made the lonesome trek to Evershot village hall last Saturday in an abortive attempt to catch the hot R&B of The Producers. Dohh, the Evershot gig takes place THIS Saturday in fact, December 1. Hey, kick my ass.

Every effort has been made to track down the scoundrel responsible for filling our heads with these erroneous notions, and I personally won't rest until I've killed him and danced on his grave in a frivolous costume of some description. Make me look like a fool, would you? I'm perfectly capable of fulfilling this task myself, etc.

Finally, it merely remains for me to draw your attention to the imminent arrival of Little Johnny England (Bridport Arts Centre, Friday, December 7, 7.30pm, £7/£6 members/concessions, tickets on (01308) 427183, renowned throughout the last beleaguered outposts of the Empire for 'putting the rock back into folk-rock.'

Little Johnny England bravely pit melodeon and fiddle against electric guitar, bass and drums to great effect. In less enlightened times, they would have been hanged for such wanton levity, as this recently-discovered extract from a 14th century witch-burning pamphlet amply demonstrates:

'Vouchsafe a while, sirrah, whyle I tell of travelling minstrelsy the likes of which no living creature should endure: Instruments of satan which plugge into ye very wattle and daub and create electryck mayhem to ye consternation of our livestock.

'This musyck is plucked from the netherworld by hellions who are more demons than men. Soup stock shall be made from their entrails, and their heads be hollowed out with sturdy flints for use as Jack O'Lanterns next Muck Spreading.'

Strewth, it's a good thing times have changed, isn't it? The worst thing that can happen to you for performing folk-rock nowadays is to be handed a hefty jail sentence, with time off for good behaviour.