Elephant Sound?

What treats does 2021 hold in store? Well, round here, delusional ramblings await. What awaits our Fats is a very special room. The one with the tentacles, the screaming and the nice doctors

You think you’re clever, don’t you. You swagger onto this inside back page first because you want to start your Electronic Sound experience with your monthly Fat Roland fix. “I always read magazines from the back,” you smugly waffle at your bemused family before blathering on about the classic magazine era of Select, The Word and Celebrity Muff while your helpless kin cheese-grate their own ears to embrace a preferable eternal silence.

You begin on this page because it is, in your words, “unpretentious” and “unfettered by grammar”, unlike the rest of the magazine which has “too many long brand names containing the letter Q” and “not enough nudes”. Here comes Fat Roland to entertain you, magazine issue after interminable magazine issue. Well, I’m not having it. I’m not your performing monkey, your dancing bear, your tightrope-walking giraffe. This ends here. You want a column this month? You can damn well write it yourself.

Delete as appropriate: Hello, my name is Fat Roland. What have I been up to? Thanks for asking (dear reader / stupid reader / a slightly inappropriate bedtime name like fluffykins). A crazy thing happened on the way to the shops. I saw (Gary Numan / all of Kraftwerk / a hilarious animal such as a confused ostrich or a wombat dressed as a goose) stuck up a tree.

Fat Roland to the rescue! I’d need help climbing the tree, so I broke into my neighbour’s house and stole (crampons / a lasso / a long synthesiser that I could use as a ladder because I just remembered the column needs to about electronic music). Sadly, my daring rescue attempt was foiled because, while crossing the road, I was run over by (an out-of-control milk float / a confused ostrich / a horse-drawn carriage towing a fat cloud).

Oh no, I thought, as my wrecked body flew into the air. If I end up in hospital, I’ll never finish my (life-size earwax selfie / jigsaw of a photograph of a jigsaw / Doop’s 1994 UK Number One single ‘Doop’ arranged for mouse orchestra). Luckily, my fall was broken by landing on one of The Beatles from the 1960s: I think his name was (John / Paul / John Paul / Pingu / really should have googled this before starting this column) and he played the (drums / clarinet / Swiss alpine horn / I’m really out of my depth here). Phew, I thought as I walked off, leaving The Beatles’ flattened body to be devoured by (rodents / raccoons / Wendy Carlos because I’ve just remembered the electronic music theme again).

Once home, I spent the rest of the day wearing only my (pants / pride / tassels), binge-watching (‘The Sopranos’ / ‘Schindler’s List’ / myself in the wing mirror of a Fiat 500) and spooning a tub of (Ben & Jerry’s / lard / eggs stolen from an ostrich), and by “spooning” I mean (using cutlery / sexy hug times / whittling it into the shape of a wooden spoon while sitting around a campfire singing songs about, er, Marshall Jefferson because I really need to remember the electronic music theme).

What a fantastic column I have written for (Electric Sound? / Elephant Sound? / what was the name again?). I’m sure the editors will thank me (with a vigorous handshake / with multiple lawsuits / by sending me back to the purple room with the tentacles and the screaming and the sinister doctors in stained lab coats because then, and only then, will I learn to write a proper article about electronic music). Thanks for (reading / coping / nothing).

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