To accomplish truly, devastatingly tuneless whistling, you must listen to old blues records for three hours, drin a cup of coffee and eat some cheese, then sleep for two and a half hours.

The black liquid and the curds will ferment in your brain and wake you up, sweating and shaking, convinced you have the seeds of a killer tune in your soul, and you will, remembering a scene in Baywatch where Mitch Buchanan's son Hobie wakes up in the middle of the night and runs to his keyboard, scared lest he lose the soft-rock alchemy suddenly in his possession, run to your mobile phone and whistle into it, with more breath and fever than actual notes.

The end result will sound a little something like this: