The Stool Pigeon

Do you know what causes my loins to swell? Technology: man’s eternal victory over that old bitch Mother Nature. In millions of years’ time, when humanity has become but another momentary guff in the universe’s cosmic order, and aliens discover the remnants of our civilisation, it won’t be the atomic bomb, or Delia Smith’s Complete Cookery Course Vols. I-III they’ll be salivating over; it’ll be the priceless gems of technological progression that’ll catch their boggly eyes. Stuff like the VCR, the Polaroid camera, the iPod, and quite possibly, Olympus’s latest über-dictaphone, the LS-10 Linear PCM Recorder.

I hopped to the front door on my middle leg when I heard the deliveryman’s all too familiar knock, limped back to my bed, and unwrapped the parcel to find the LS-10 bound in impenetrable layers of packaging. Hours later, and with frequent pauses to alleviate my distress, I finally reached the sleek recorder, only to discover that I had been transported to a dimension where notions of past, present and future had wilted, leaving only the vaguest residue of time’s troublesome hands. Such is the power of the LS-10.

“Behold!” I cried. “We shall not be forgotten with this timeless monument to mankind’s achievements!”

But this neat bit of gadgetry’s inspirational functions are not merely the product of a lapsed mind - far from it. Reading the LS-10’s spec list feels like leafing through the Dead Sea Scrolls. Looking like one of those TV controllers Captain Spock and the lads used to fanny about with on Star Trek, it has a high-quality built-in microphone; WAV/WMA/MP3 recording formats; three microphone modes; five reverb effects; four playback modes; a tripod connector; automatic or manual controls; a switchable recording monitor; a built-in stereo speaker; 2GBs worth of internal memory; an optional AC adaptor, and last not but least, the ability to record in CD quality sound.

This function would also come in handy if you wanted to, say, record a demo for your band. Indeed, that fella from Pink Floyd who isn’t Ricky Waters, Dave Gilmour, or the other bloke, seems to be quite smitten with it too. But why limit the LS-10 to such lowly means? “What would Captain Nemo do?” I pondered, before slipping into my dungarees and walking out onto London’s cold hard streets.

Initially, I contented myself by recording offers of casual sexual liaisons, and replaying them in the hosiery department of Marks & Spencer. Indeed, its manufacturers had not exaggerated the machine’s capacity to capture sound in frighteningly life-like form, and I was soon apprehended by security, who escorted me to their holding cell.

Fortunately, I managed to utilise the LS-10’s magic once more, and caused a distracting humming noise with its reverb function long enough for the guard not to notice my escape. Back on the street, I determinedly resumed my testing, by seeing how good the kit was at long distance recording.

Walking to the end of a busy Oxford Street, I secreted the device in a hanging basket above an opticians, and strolled approximately 100m down the pavement. My intention was to simply say a few words and return to the LS-10 to see if it had picked them up. Alas, I was struck dumb by stage fright, and decided instead to bad-mouth all those slutty barmaids in Hoxton that always turn me down.

The following afternoon my diatribe against these females ceased, and I felt my spirits rise once more. Sadly, the LS-10 was no longer where I had left it. Thus my report may appear to be inconclusive. But, believe me, if I could wed the LS-10, I would.

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