I spent a fair chunk of this wondering whether Weir had made a deliberate choice to avoid the too-obvious word 'boffin', before his presentation of 'redundancies' as a bit of local colour when discussing the Workshop's 1998 dissolution made me realise that he's from the other side of the fishpond, where it doesn't tend to be a word they use. Still, make no mistake, this is absolutely a book about boffins, people with an amazing gift for making unearthly noises that could blur (or eat up) the distinction between sound effects and music out of equipment never intended for the purpose: lampshades, bottles, oscillators. Hell, even the magnetic tape they manipulated so expertly, sometimes stretching it out along what they described as the longest corridor in London, turns out originally to have been a byproduct of the tobacco industry, with duck-hunting and Nazism also playing key roles in its transition to the defining medium of the twentieth century's latter half. But as well as marvelling at the technological resourcefulness (and Weir freely admits that his interest wanes once the Workshop moves from tape experiments to synthesisers), the book prods at all sorts of wider cultural issues. Such as, what does it mean that rather than operating within the music industry template, the Radiophonic Workshop were a department (albeit an oddball one) within a bureaucratic organisation, employees gossiping about colleagues and management rather than idols smashing up hotel rooms? And, related to that, for all that co-founder Daphne Oram resented the Workshop's subordination to programme-making, having initially hoped the BBC would create a free-standing high art experimental music facility similar to what was happening in Paris and Cologne, wasn't it really much more interesting, not to mention influential, that all these crazy, impossible sounds were sneaking into TV and radio shows across the spectrum, such that whatever people were watching or listening to, they – and even more importantly, their children, who would go on to make Britain the world capital of synthpop – were being exposed to experimental composition that would never have had anything like the same audience were it presented as a thing in itself? Which, of course, it subsequently was on this album, and Weir is aware that he's slightly cheating on the 33 1/3 remit there. But it's resulted in a sufficiently fascinating and fun entry in the series that I think he can be forgiven that. Sadly, in his discussion of the Workshop's most famous achievement, though he is quite correctly awestruck by the Doctor Who theme and how perfectly the TARDIS sound evokes a space-time machine, he does trot out some hoary lines about the supposed shoddiness of the rest of the show, and that is a far graver offence.