These Bones Were Built In Lasklustre Devon Towns

The soundtrack to my childhood is this: hrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr hrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr hrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr whoooooooooooooooooosssssssssssssssssshhhhhhhhhh hhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr. No friends, I was not brought up in a Vacuum Cleaner Factory. I was instead a product of a small town in MidEast Devon called Cullompton. Cullompton is not a fun place, but perhaps the inspirational behind Jawbreaker's first lp "Unfun". We don't know for sure, but we have our suspicions!

You see, Cullompton has one redeeming feature. It is very very close to the 5th Motorway of our Nation's formidable infrastructure. You might know it as the M5. So, if you have ever driven the South West's answer to Route 66, you will have seen Cullompton's Service Station (Voted Worst in the Country by The Times of London, and Which? Magazine!!), you cannot have failed to have noticed the sprawling suburbia that is actually surburban in relation to nothing, and your eyes will not have deceived you that there truly is not one thing there!

So, this noise I have mentioned is all we have to hang on to. All that is actually ours. The constant drone of rubber tyres on tarmac-ed byways. All day. And all night. Hhhhhhhrrrrrrrrr.

But Cullompton has given me more than just a headache and a lower life expectancy. It also gave me Ben Goddard. For those of you who don't know him, Ben is possibly the most offensive man alive. He has a remarkable ability to find the most obnoxious thing that you would never say, and then surpass it. And say it in front of your Mother. But this, friends, is part of his charm. Life would be much reduced without him nearby, and very soon it will be. Tonight is Ben Goddard's last night in Devon for a long time. Many a time we've heard that he's leaving, and each time the reason has been more obscure. "Doing the festies" would be my personal favourite, but maybe you have your own; i can't choose for you!

So, he's moving to London, and I'm pleased that he's happy with his choice, but its put me in an interesting frame of mind. Now, I am the last of my friends to be in Devon- I moved to Exeter, but there's no challenge in that, so why have I not left? I've even written songs about my powers reducing if I get too far away. But too far from what? The official worst place to buy Ginsters? It doesn't seem to make sense!

There was a poet, who was around in the early 19th century called John Clare. He was from Northamptonshire, not far from Peterborough, and was a farm labourer. Sociologically he's interesting because he is an early example of a poet, writer or artist who wasn't from a wealthy background. Anyway, John Clare was practically adopted by some patrons from London. They told him that he was going to be rich and famous. Meanwhile, he kept writing, but the wealth and fame never arrived. In fact, things got worse- his house was in such a poor state of repair that his lungs suffered horrendously from the damp. His patrons gathered together to make a plan, and rented a new, drier house, 8 miles to the South of his birthplace. The Clare family removed there, and John could cope so little with the change that he actually lost his mind, and spent the remaining 35 years of his life in a Mental Hospital.

Now, of course, Ben will travel and have an incredible time. It will probably be the best thing he ever did. But I can't go. I wouldn't go. If I look at a map and mark the places where I would be happy to live, I have a very thin corridor that is etched into the page. It begins in Cullompton, and reaches Exeter, and there is maybe a two mile deviation away from that central line. Do you know what the line is? The 5th Motorway of our Nation's formidable infrastructure. I can't sleep when its quiet outside my window. The further I get from Cullompton, the more my powers decrease. Long live Ben Goddard, long live Lacklustre towns. I can't pretend I'm something I'm not, and I am not able to change!

These bones were built not just on rice, but on all things unglamourous and simple!

Friends, I am what would have been known in history as a simpleton. I lack refinement, a glossy finish, or any kind of social standing. Not only am I all this and more, but also I am from Devon. In Devon there are two ways to talk: properly, and like me. We are a confused race, us Devonians. We have not the beaches of Cornwall, nor the tranquility of Dorset, instead we are (particularly in my part of the County) a place to put service stations for tourists. Not that we ever see real tourists, mind. That would be too much!

Anyway, I forget myself; in Devon, we are "blessed" with what would be known as a rural accent. This is not optional, but arrives at the most prominent of moments, and lengthens any "A" that has the misfortune to stand out. Thus, apples become aaaaapples, bands becomes baaaands and that new wave band that your mum likes become Aaaaadam aaaaand the Aaaaants. So, when you travel in high society (as one occasionally does!!), and think that you might just be fitting in, well, someone mentions that cursed fruit, and you have to repeat the word. Suddenly the scales fall from (for example) The Ambassador's eyes, and you stand before him, metaphorically naked, a bog-trotter plain and simple!

So, I scurry back to Devon, to the sweet embrace of the River Exe, and return to the mire from which I came. But friends, there is a greater tragedy at work here; more insurmountable than the snobbery of the Big City, more grotesque than the "burr" which confines me. Friends, we have been infiltrated! Here in our very city, the town on the Exe, the Exeter. The last western city of the Holy Roman Empire. Who would have thought it? Not Caesar, that's for sure! You see, my voice suggests a simpleton, and I have come to terms with this. I have adapted my ambitions forthwith, and have become basic of taste. Yet, in our very city, the very home of this simple life, we are being fooled! Apparently, art is hard. Apparently, we need to be clever, and if we can't be clever, then we need to appear as such. This my friends, is the movement that causes us to read our books, watch our films, and listen to our records not based on whether they will be any good or not, but how it makes us look to the outside work. Such foolishness is hard to stomach, but not only is stomaching necessary; we also must be made to feel less than these charlatans!

So, in the interests of reasserting power, and bringing rural England back to its lowly roots, here is the truth...

My name is Jon, I once ate only potatoes for a month. If I had to choose between Othello and Saved By The Bell on TV, I'd be torn. If every song I ever heard had 2 verses and a chorus, I'd be a happy man, and if I never see another local artist with South American or African influences, despite being born and bred in Crediton, I'd be in heaven.