I am still very interested in this piece of shit writing:

I am constantly referred to as a bluesman; I am not a bluesman and care not to be one. I write songs and finger pick, play with my balls and drink wine through-out the day. I want to be Mike Nesmith, James Jameson and Spiderman. I am Hank Williams, I am Hank Williams III. I’ve sat cross legged, howled at the moon, smelt roses, and spat at people, I’ve ripped pages from the book, cried blind for my mother and pissed thousands of pounds up the wall. I consciously forfeited the one step forward and leaped with relish two steps back. I am a stale puddle of puke; I am a fucking Lavender field. I love you more than you can imagine but would kill you for the penny in your pocket. Fuck, You wouldn’t call Nick Cave a murderer or Leonardo De Vinci an aero dynamist. Dried herbs are more pungent than fresh ones and all that.

Mr. David Viner, I Play Pop Music (A Liars Confession), aqui.