You'll also need some of these utensils: an organ, a microphone, tapes, an echo machine or two and any other paraphernalia you can afford/borrow/find. For choicest mouthwatering end results the following procedure should be observed:

1) The two men met whilst graphics students at that great shrine to intellectual pursuits and academic brilliance, Harrow College. Stephen was dabbling in keyboards in a jazzy workshop type ensemble that had commandeered the college bar for an evening of avant amusements. Neil meanwhile had a part in a seven-strong grouping dedicated to the destruction of old Beatle songs.

Stephen: “The night that Neil saw us we had five percussionists and the bar was full of lawnmowers and washing machines. We used to mic those things up and they would just go. I'd been involved in this for about eight years.”

Neil: “The noise they made fitted in with what I had been doing. Only one of my lot could actually play, we just used to go overboard in performance. We'd bring loads of equipment and borrow amps that we'd never use just so the whole thing looked bigger. We used to dream of playing the college bar. It was the gig.”

Stephen: “So Neil came round to my flat one afternoon and we sat down with a snare drum, echo unit, a pair of headphones and a Kraftwerk record and we did 'Sad Day'.”

A seminal version of a ticklish little instrumental uncluttered with excessive decoration, which must have been a temptation, reminding me of the Beethoven hit 'Ode To Joy'.

Ironically the only non-vocal piece still included in the Blancmange repertoire. Most of their ditties are full of mind teasing superficially nonsensical clusters of words. Neil sings them largely for their effect and their complementing of the music. He hints at things. The listener is compelled to wonder at what things.

Blancmange made one of very few early live appearances supporting pragVEC. Afterwards they were approached by one David Hill asking where he could acquire their record. Of course the pair had yet to make one. They stood wide-eyed and amazed when the budding record company executive fellow offered to finance an EP. The eager twosome dashed home and produced the necessary tapes.

Alas the vinyl incarnation did riot until a full year had elapsed, in April of 1980. The six-track affair was entitled 'Irene And Mavis'. The Luscumbe pet pussy was awarded the Order Of The Whisker for services rendered to the making of the sleeve. The animal leapt with every feline grace at his master’s flat wall, adjacent to an area where the sleeve notes had been scrawled. The great event was photographed and thus the cost of typesetting was removed from the budget.

Most of the grooves were born on a four-track Teac tape recorder although a studio was hired for the side-splitting light relief of the Dave Clark Five's 'Concentration Baby'. This found Mr Arthur treading indelicately through the lyrics with a ridiculous Hovis accent (even more ridiculous than Neil's real life cloth cap doon at mill brogue).

Neil: “The music then was getting too self indulgent. Even we weren't feeling anything for it. We decided on a total rethink. A whole new set was written in two weeks. The music changed from being sounds to being songs.”

2) The desired onslaught into the nasty 'rock world' coincided with the first rumblings of the fated Futurism. Yes, the summer of Stevo: Neil: “I got a phone call from this East Ender saying be wanted us to play at the Bridgehouse. He’d been looking for an electronic duo and someone at Rough Trade remembered the EP and suggested us.

"We thought 'Christ, the rock world wants us!' We were really excited, took the day off work, got there far too early and, of course, no-one turned up. Stevo took a liking to us though and offered us more dates.”

Stephen: “The less said about Stevo the better. We did do 'Sad Day' for the 'Some Bizzare’ album and signed a publishing deal with Cherry Red. We went on the Some Bizzare tour, although as far as Stevo was concerned the whole thing was cancelled. We phoned up aIl the clubs that had originally been booked and told them that we were still playing. We travelled everywhere in a Volkswagen.”

This opportunist let's-see-the-world-and-let-the-world-see-us escapade earned a handsome dividend. The eyes and ears of Martyn Ware were wooed at Sheffield's Limit Club. The Heaven 17ers had previously heard a tape of the band at Virgin's office. After the person-to-person exposure he threw open his own eight-track studio for demo ing purposes.

Neil: “We did four songs with Martin and really liked them. Unfortunately everybody else thought they were rubbish. There was once a move to get Steve Hillage to produce us. He came to a rehearsal of ours in a bedroom. He sat at the end of the bed making notes. Later on he did a really good job. with Simple Minds. We never could work out why be was called Cabbage Head. In the end Hillage was too expensive. The tracks we did with Martin now provide the backing tapes we use on stage.”

3) Clothes-wise Neil favours the ill-fitting elegance of a made-not-to- measure suit, the jacket portion of which terminates at a point mid-thigh. As such this top piece is a shade over daring for public appearances. Consequently he steps out in shirt, tie and reasonably smart trousers. This attire, combined with a deep, US-tinged voice style begs the lan Curtis shot-through with the spirit of Jimbo Morrison comparison. In other words its firm, suave and involving.

If you've been witness to Blancmange at any of their recent supporting engagements with Grace Jones, Depeche Mode or Japan you'll know that Stephen is normally half-hidden behind his keyboards and gadgets. He's like a contemporary musical sorcerer. What emerges from his cauldron is a rarely predictable courageous venture into modern moods. The atmosphere swings from easy-going mellowness (in a few places) to awesome slabs of dark. Blancmange can haunt and tingle but they never reach that point of emotionless blandness some electronic originated music cannot escape from.

One true trump up the sleeve is the slide show, which moves the live set into brave new realms of audio visual excitement. Slides have been used before, of course, but generally relegated to the background as a complement to the stage-dwelling humans.

With Blancmange the slidesman, Chris Littler, is housed in a booth and back projects the articles onto a screen placed at the very front and in the dead centre of the stage: the traditional audience focal point and front-person domain.

4) The final presentation of this edifying dish can take several forms. A large handful of major record already have their ideas. Much of this interest is perhaps due to the shrewdness of manager (and making his debut in this role) John Williams, also an occasional producer of Peel Show sessions.

The man has yet, however, to grasp the fine art of taking a journalist out to lunch.

Until then I’ll stay happy with the dessert.