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.