Jim Reid at the Coachella festival. No, really. Photograph: Kevin Winter/Getty
For those of you who read my first Guardian article made from actual ink and trees, about the Jesus and Mary Chain's grand return, I have further news from the Shaldon Barber Shop.
As I explained, Jim Reid - of late having been somewhat inactive in the noise, chaos and pop music world - had drawn several winces of scepticism from his local barber while politely small-talking his upcoming adventures. Coachella, David Letterman ... even in a town whose population are mostly well-advanced in years this seemed a bridge too far in the Alzheimer's stakes. Claiming to be Winston Churchill is one thing, but this?
And so it is with great pleasure that I can reveal that Mr Reid has once again presented himself for a trim at Cynical Sid's Snip Shop in preparation for another forthcoming "fantastic" event. Mr Benn eat your heart out.
"Something for the weekend, Jim?"
"No thanks. I'll be in London - I'm playing a gig."
A palpable drop in pressure causes involuntary shivers among the elderly folk, patiently lined up awaiting the chop. They cling together for warmth and comradeship, sensing - just as they did in 1941 - occult forces at work. A bottle of hair tonic begins to rattle on the shelf, and the Derek Doogan Hairstyle Calendar 1975 inexplicably falls from the wall.
"Oh, are you - anywhere nice is it?"
"Er, yeah - the Royal Festival Hall actually." He coughs slightly.
"Been broadcast is it?"
The electric clippers move dangerously close to Jim's aorta as the barber grimaces and spins a finger to his temple in a gesture of insanity.
The haircut draws to a satisfactory close.
Having seen the back and sides in the mirror, and received a light neck brushing and a complimentary Handy Andy Man Size, Jim prepares to leave. The barber takes his money and considers asking him to ... perhaps try somewhere else for a while or: "Why not grow your hair really long, a ponytail, it's all the fashion, and it'd suit you."
"Oh, I nearly forgot, I've got something for you," says Jim.
He hands the barber my Guardian article, open at the relevant page, then vamooses into the Devon sunshine.
