Electronic Sound HQ

In desperate need of a sugar fix, our self-styled columnist is heading for Electronic Sound HQ. Not again. Excuse us while we lock up the biscuits and batten down the hatches

Illustration: Fat Roland

This month, I got to visit the Electronic Sound offices. It was a meeting as momentous as Tory Spice visiting Nelson Mandela, or Bugs Bunny meeting a carrot. I’ve visited other places too, such as the Withernsea Spatula Factory and the Cramlington Snot Museum. But this visit was special. I walked right in off the street, and they didn’t strip-search me or anything, which was a big shame.

For those unfamiliar with the inner workings of the greatest electronic music publication since Gary Numan’s Favourite Crayons Annual 1980, I don’t actually work at Electronic Sound HQ. I’m not allowed my own workstation due to the biscuit crumb disaster of 2014 which we’re not allowed to talk about. Instead, they keep me in a crow’s nest way above the offices. I say crow’s nest… it’s a wicker basket on a pole. This sounds awful, like living inside a nappy recycling bin or living inside a burning ring of fire or living in Rhyl. But it’s not too bad. There’s Wi-Fi for my online poker addiction. There are little pockets to hold my many cheese triangles. And when I need the toilet, I can just relax and release. The wicker floor allows bodily waste to drip gracefully through, and this then acts as a handy lubricant when I’m thigh-sliding down the pole. My crow’s nest is great, as long as I avoid getting hit by seagulls, frisbees, jumbo jets and crows.

They’ve got more than spatulas, by the way. In the Withernsea Spatula Factory. There’s an aisle of mechanical whisks, and a whole section devoted to potato peelers. You won’t find any sandwich toasters or those new-fangled air fryers. No, this is your basic kitchen equipment. Things you can put on hooks.

Apparently, Withernsea also has a popular comb exhibition, but I’d rather see a load of kitchen utensils than gross combs knotted with scalp-flecked hair. I’ve got two-for-one tickets if you fancy visiting. Just write your name at the bottom of this page and I’ll get back to you.

Dammit. I’ve lost my thread. Spatulas. Frisbees. Crayons? Oh yes, my visit to the offices of Electronic Sound. I must admit, I got a bit disoriented on the way. I have zero sense of direction. There was a Vinyl Exchange I shopped at once that, I swear, used to rotate its floors like one of those weird paternoster lifts. I’d trot down into the basement to browse the electronic music CDs – that was easy enough. After half an hour of finger-flapping my way through their overstock of Basement Jaxx, I’d canter off and walk straight into a broom cupboard. Or into their staffroom. Or, gulp, into the heavy metal section. Bad times.

Now I come to think of it, the Electronic Sound offices weren’t quite what I expected. Instead of shelves of magazines, there were rows and rows of cheese and onion pasties. I thought I’d see a door to an editorial office, but there was just a pile of jam doughnuts on special offer. And the sign outside said “Greggs” instead of “Electronic Sound”. Still, it was nice to meet my fellow journalists. I say “journalists”… I lined up some vegan sausage rolls and blobbed eyes on them with doughnut icing. I gave them names and everything.

Quentin. Tallulah. Another Quentin.

Alright, alright, I never did visit the Electronic Sound offices. The whole thing was a lie. I actually popped to a Greggs bakery to buy a stack of salted caramel yum-yums. They’re twisty sugary pillows for your mouth! Look, I can fit 12 in my gob at once. Mfffph, mummmble, mmmmfffff.

You May Also Like
Read More

Milbo Maggins

On this, the occasion of our 100th issue (just for the absence of doubt), our fourth favourite columnist considers the future of magazines. Well, when we say “considers”…
Read More

Minced Beef Tina Turner

Our resident columnist has a problem with Falk Grieffenhagen. That’s him out of Kraftwerk, that is. He’s like the new money version of Florian Schneider. Or something
Read More

A Dog Ate My Fingers

Like a Rat up drainpipe, our columnist is as naked as a Jaybird and proud as a Peacock… he’s a sitting Duck. let sleeping Dogs lie. look, it’s complicated