SUNDAY EVENINGS WITH UNCLE DEATHBOY

It's Sunday. So I need to do the washing. Of course I do. NORMAL SCOTT. Very normal.

Of course, then I realise that the last time I recorded the sound of my washing machine (WARNING WARNING), I only used my mobile phone and the recording quality wasn't really high enough to justify the fact that I used it as the basis of an industrial track (WARNING) and I should really take the opportunity to use my expensive field-microphone to make a BETTER recording this time (WARNING).

It's out of batteries. Of course it is. Batteries! Who even uses them? People who want to save on the manufacturing costs, right, eh, Zoom? URGH.

I could plug it into the mains using USB! No. Because its simplistic implementation of USB connectivity only assumes that I'll be connecting it to a computer (in which mode it won't act as a stand-alone mic) and so that's out.

BUY BATTERIES, THEN! WHEEE!

I do this. And a pint of your finest vodka, my delightfully well-prepared corner-shop dude.

Inspect battery compartment (skip over ten minutes of percussive maintenance and calling a consumer hardware device a 'fucking treacherous silver bastard').

FANTASTIC! The battery compartment has corroded and a little bit of metal that (you know) makes the circuit has apparently FELL OFF.

Fine. FINE. No. FINE. Really. This is fine.

Find a jumpjack. Connect terminals of batteries. IT BOOTS! SUCCESS! It really is just as stupid as a bit of metal fell off due to acidic corrosion and now the battery compartment doesn't do its ONE JOB of linking the - to the + of two batteries. AGAIN. FINE.

Really starting to think I've invested rather too much time in this whole concept of recording my washing machine and should probably just put it on to wash and not record it because it's Sunday and I need to get my chores done.

NO. No, no no no, absolutely NO, William Gibson didn't become culturally irrelevant for me to not be able to do something as simple as close a fucking circuit so that I can record my fucking washing machine with my perversely expensive stereo field-recorder.

I CAN PROBABLY JUST SHUT THE FUCKING CASE WITH THE JUMPJACK IN PLACE AND IT'LL BE FINE.

No. No, it isn't. The Chinese, lord bless them, have seen me coming and every millimeter of space on this case has been afforded to close EXACTLY perfectly, or at least so much so that the fucking thing won't close with a fucking jumpjack clamped between its jaws and making the circuit work.

FINE FINETTY BASTARD FINE.

Find a very small wire. Trim the fucking plastic back so that it's really not taking up any space at all, oh no. Gently, delicately, lovingly close the fucking battery case with the tiny little wire (oh! so tiny! you'll barely notice!) EXACTLY in place, bridging the contacts, so the thing is booting up nicely.

(we take a small break here to represent the 10 minutes in which a grown man shouts a variety of extremely inappropriate epithets at what is, when it comes down to it, a bit of wire)

HAHAHAHAAHAAAAAAAA. CLOSE THE BATTERY COMPARTMENT! DEVICE IS TURNED ON! HIT RECORD! IT IS RECORDING! HAAAAHAHAHAHAAHHAAAHAHAHAHAHA!

What was I doing now?

Oh yes.

Turn. On. Washing. Machine.

Final stage: go upstairs and tell the internet what you just did. They are BOUND to be impressed at your inventiveness.

It's alright for you people. This is my life.