Ninety-two years ago to the day the flower of British youth was donning soup-bowl helmets and fixing bayonets to long bits of wood in a dull region of France called the Somme, before clambering out of holes in the ground to see how many pieces of hot metal they could collect in their bodies.

Their noble sacrifices on that day have enabled me, a lost toe-rag of generation No-Idea, to idle my life away doing very little in the way of work in foreign parts and squander what pitiful wealth I have gathered on other, altogether less lethal, long bits of wood.

Here they all are, resplendent in a bad 1970’s-look photograph capturing the essence of that legendary factory of audio goodness, Easter Island Studios.

Now, as in some other Pacific islands’ cargo-cults of the 1940’s, I’d like you all to bow down before the assembled deities of Fenders Telecaster, Jazzmaster, Jazz Bass and Precision Bass, Yamaha 12-string acoustic, Rickenbacker 4003, Gibson SG Standard, Epiphone Les Paul Custom and cheap 6-string Ovation copy of dubious provenance.

Guarding the rear of the temple are a pair of stern-faced Marshalls, whilst hovering in the air are Korg and Roland synths, an Akai sampler and a pair of digital recording workstations courtesy of Yamaha and Roland.

And lo, it was good.