stroke me magnet with your fanny whacker

And then it happened. Skinny Boy sat by the PC, Bertie pulled up a chair next to him. I held my breath and listened to the clicking of the mouse and the tapping of the keys of the keyboard. I did not dare say a word. I did not dare tempt fate. But I did inhale sharply having realised I was still holding my breath. Luckily the music creation was about to start. Nothing could break the concentration of this greatness.

The CD tray opened and a carefully selected sample CD was added and gently pushed to close. A pause. Then more clicking of the mouse. Skinny Boy reached over to the large black amp (looking like something from the eighties but I’m no amp expert) and turned a dial. “Stroke me magnet with your fanny whacker” boomed out of the speakers. Skinny Boy reached over and turned the volume dial down. ‘Me neighbours will go spare, they bang on the wall if I play stuff too loud’.

‘So bang back, or turn it right up, I would’. Bertie the diplomat would appear to have fewer ties to this house than his co-creator.

I gingerly stood up from the bed to grab a glimpse at the screen. To me it was a hodge podge of small screens, virtual dials and waveforms. To them it is like a second language, a dialect only a select few have the vast experience to understand the verbal communication of musical greats. Bertie turned to me ‘we have no idea what all these dials do. Play a sample with the dial turned right up, play it again with the dial turned right down and listen for the difference. If there is one, we use the dial’.