Welcome to the new, vastly improved website of the old, vastly unimproved Simon Spillett. Those of you returning from visiting the old site will notice some changes. Those of you visiting for the first time are probably thinking "I couldn't find him on Facebook." Too right. At this point I could go on about the invasive, insidious nature of Social Media and how I'd rather join the Moonies than Twitter, but I'm not going to. Instead, I'll begin with an apology (and Lord knows I've finished a few gigs with one) to those who may have arrived via You Tube (or as I prefer to call it "the home of camera-phone filmed crap commented on by people with impenetrable user names"). So you know, I didn't ask for any of that stuff to be posted on the internet and so please rest assured that I too shudder at the thought that it's probably out there in the ether forever more, alongside those farcical albums I was foolish enough to record. Anyway, enough of that. Let's get to the reason for your visit: you've either read one of those sleeve notes or the book on you know who, something that pleases me no end as that's really where I'm at these days. Thank you. And for those of you who may have come to a gig or have some sort of bizarre desire to find out which pub backroom I'm appearing in next, or who are lamenting the death of the long-running Jazz In London leaflet, well, rather than bluster my own way out of not having a gig list on this site instead I'll just say this: wherever there's a grass roots jazz venue, you'll find me there, mowing the lawn of British mainstream, metaphorically speaking. Or doing a spot of spade work. Often in surprising company. Yes, as long as there's a pub or pavilion (thanks Julian!) that requires a musician whose surname can be mispelt on a chalk board on a Thursday night then I'm in business. Oh, and I suppose I'd better say something about that. Yes, the cartoon. It was made by a gifted guy named Jonathan Cusick at the Birmingham Jazz Festival in - I think - 2013. As I recall, I was playing at The Mailbox on a Saturday morning, giving the shoppers outside Tesco Express the shock of their lives. Actually, it was a nice gig, marred only slightly by my returning some money a small child had thrown at us presuming we were busking. To my surprise, a guy I guess was her father - a man of few words, all of them delivered with vein-popping, nonsensical rage - squared up to me, bellowing that I'd offended his daughter. "That's 'er pocket money she's giving you, mate," he spat, his nose on mine. "Well, tell her to get some sweets," I replied, offering the only thing I could think of on the spot to pacify this pitbull in a vest. I digress. The cartoon is nice though. So, if you are feeling reckless enough to come to a gig, no I'm not busking. TTFN.