Nothing moved (except for all the moving things) at the cemetery for extremely retired songwriters. The wind stalled in the branches of skeletal trees that lurked, half noticed, between the teeth of well worn headstones.
In a long forgotten corner of this graveyard to musical mediocrity, the mossy ground was pushed apart by a pair of rather muddy buttocks which pointed skywards, wobbling with defiance at a world which sought to forget their once mighty cry.
The buttocks moved inexorably toward the heavens to reveal the power behind the seat, the tangled (and rather peckish) body of lapsed sparrow designer, one time Olympic speed masturbator and musical demigod; Simon Harriet Walsh.
Simon sniffed the air hungrily and opened his good eye to scan the surroundings for a curry within easy reach. Failing to identify any hot meal in the immediate vicinity, he opened his other good eye and began the twenty minute walk to Pappa Poppadoms world of Tandoori Pizza.
Many of you out there may think the above is some strange work of fiction designed to lift your hopes and maybe sell more pizza but I can confirm that all you have read is totally true.
Well, nearly true.
Simon Walsh walks among us again. I know it is hard to believe (even I find it difficult to fathom and I am Simon Walsh) but like the flat earth and Arsenal being crap at the moment, theres no use denying something that is evidently true.
I feel honoured to rudely intrude upon your private lives once again in an attempt to sell you my music in return for as much money as I can get (which I will then squander on Pepsi, Pringles and pornography). For your part, I guess it must make you feel proud to think of me savagely pounding away to page nineteen of Naughty Traffic Warden Monthly while belching smokey bacon breath every time you listen to one of my songs. The mere thought of it brings a tear to my eye and gives genuine value to my art.
Talking of new music, Robert Ramsay and I are currently labouring to produce a brand new Simon Walsh album that should be available from all good underpants over the summer of 2006. We have many ideas for the title but if you have a suggestion that you feel might suit my music, I invite you to submit your suggestion to:
simonwalshneedsanewalbumtitleandhecannotbearsedtothinkofone@simonwalsh.org
The author of the best suggestion shall receive a free signed copy of said album (signed by, Streatham Crazy Golfer Of The Year and Touretts patient Chris Van-Moog) along with a years complimentary subscription to his zany but informative blog: The Hole C*nting Story*
I think Ive mentioned elsewhere that I will be putting together my first live shows in in the near future and will be accompanied Tim Wookie Eyles on guitar who will play all the interesting bits that I cant be arsed to learn. Along with Tim, there will be the obligatory inclusion of a new boy to the band in the form of Nick 'Heart Attack' Roberts who plays like an veritable angel and farts like a proverbial bastard (or is that the other way round?). Finally I can also confirm the return to the fold of Rob Ramsay (studio whore, harmonica and stoic expressions) who I am both happy and completely wrong to call my son.
Join us and help celebrate the re-birth of a phenomenon that almost deserves your attention.
I remain as ever, purple headed and proud.
Simon Walsh
*Legal notice: The Hole C*nting Story does not exist save as a figment of Simon Walsh's imagination.
** Simon Walsh does not exist save as a figment of Simon Godfreys c*nting imagination.
*** Simon Godfrey does exist but often loses his enthusiasm for a subject even before the sentence is fi
**** Oh, for fuc