Dear Cuthbert,
It has been a long and troubling summer. I wish that I could divulge the frivolous accounts of numerous romantic
trysts, but my hunger remains unsatiated, nay worse, it grows and grows. My libido has been left fallow too long.
As I write my heart is heavy, and swollen, and when expanded to its full girth, as you know too well, it pulses and
it aches. Oh how it aches...positively vulgar!
You know that usually your dear Rodger would not trouble you with all this whingeing, you are no doubt
surrounded by young flesh in those city haunts we loved to frequent all those summers ago...I should never have
left! What a fool am I! I digress, my reason for writing you in the middle of the night is a most wondrous discovery.
A document of vigour, and of youth, has dropped into my welcoming lap a mere thirteen hours ago. It's positively
indecent!
A quintet of minstrels no less, all possessed of the vocal chords of angels and the firm bodies of weather baked
sailors. A truly bounteous concoction and the final stinger to my heart? They have assumed the titles of 'The
Nothing Butt Thieves' and in the process have stolen my heart, though of course I would have given it freely.
The music, how do I paint for you a picture of this angelic cacophony of sound?
Well, for my part, I will try.
They sound a bit like Jeff Buckley meets Muse meets Royal Blood. Also there's an embarrassing white boy rap to
rival Ed Sheeran.
3 Bumps | Bump |
