It hadn’t been the best of times for ‘t Bungling Baron Waste o’ Space. Nothing had really gone right since he’d received the invitation to the Pentagon.....
“Sithee, by boogery, them Spams want me to go terr ‘t Pentagon to tell ‘em about ‘t airr forrce’s Nimrod.”, he confided in Boogerroff, his trusty whippet. “Scrotum!” he bellowed at his old wrinkled retainer, “Gerrout ‘t best tweed suit and moleskin weskit an’ I’ll be off in ‘t morrow”.
The next day, as Boogerroff whined plaintively, he set off in ‘t Rolls for the airport. He wasn’t terribly impressed at having to be frisked after the bells around his knees had set off the metal detector, nor at having to doff his best dancing clogs for security checking. “Eh oop, lad, careful of ‘t family jewels”, he’d warned the airport security officer before boarding his flight. Even that hadn’t gone well; “Now then, Flossie”, was his greeting to the cabin steward, “Ah don’t want any o’ that soft Sootherrn rubbish, so you or one of your girl friends had best go an’ get me a cow’s udder and pancreas tart an’ a nice piece of Parkin ferr afterrs”. The steward had glared at him, but had manage to keep him quiet throughout the flight with copious libations of brown ale. His arrival in the US had caused quite a stir as well; “Sithee, Sambo son, get off tha’ bum an’ get ‘t luggage in ‘t cab” he’d shouted at the African-American he’d wrongly assumed to be a porter. But the reply of “F*ck you, mutherfu*ker, this n*g*r ain’t doin’ yo’ sh*t!” had left him somewhat bewildered and he’d had to lug his brass-buttoned leather portmanteau to the taxi rank himself. “’terr ‘t Pentagon an’ chop chop, chinky lad”, he’d instructed his Vietnamese taxi driver as he squeezed his profusely sweating bulk into the cab. “Gerron ‘t right side of ‘t road tha soft booger”, he continued as the cab set off. Soon, however, he found himself at the Pentagon......
“Eh oop, Nelson lad, tha’ must be a brave sailor boy wi’ all them medals. Tha’ wants terr know about ma’ new Nimrod, does’t tha’?”, he’d enquired of Admiral Spiro T Chickensexer III who’d been sent to greet him.
“Sure. We’re assessing a range of airplanes procurement-wise for our anti-submarine requirement. We’ll be expecting a full presentation on your product with costed options and full customer support proposals for an output-specified platform capable.......”
“By I’ll go terr ‘t foot of ower sterrs if tha’ don’t talk funny, sailor boy”, spluttered the Baron, “don’t worry the se’n wi’ all that tittle-tattle. Tha’ won’t find owt’ better than ower Nimrod”
“Say, pal. What exactly is a Nimrod” asked the Admiral
“It’s based on ‘t ‘owd Comet”, explained the Baron
“Comet?”
“Aye. ‘t Comet werr ‘t firrst jet airliner, tha’ knows. Champion British it werrr”
The admiral pressed a button on his desk and a suit appeared at his elbow. “What have we got on the Comet, boy”, growled the Admiral. A few minutes later the suit reappeared with a thin, dusty volume entitled ‘Limey Airplanes of the ‘40s and ‘50s’. “Here you are, Admiral”, he said, “We found this in the Smithsonian...”
“Hmmm. ‘Inspired by the World’s first jet airliner, the all-American Boeing 707, the Comet was a total failure. After a succession of crashes, Brit airlines soon replaced it with the 707. Later it was used by the RAF and some were modified to Nimrod anti-submarine airplanes to replace the Second World War Shackleton. A later airborne radar version was scrapped in favor of the superior Boeing E-3 AWACS’. So, if I read you right, you’re trying to sell us something nearly 50 years old - kinda young for a Limey jet, I guess - which has a history of falling out of the sky and delayed, expensive development programs which never really worked?”, queried the Admiral.
“Now then, now then - don’t get thee mad oop, sailor boy. ‘t Nimrod has been proper champion for ‘t Airr Forrce for ‘t last 35 years an’ now we’re selling them a new one”
“New?”
“Well, ‘t new ones are being built from ‘t old ones. Grand way of saving brass, tha’ knows....”
“Built from old ones. Guess they’re the ones you used as airliners and then put into desert storage?”
“Nay, lad. Them’s proper anit-soobmarrine ‘uns as 'ave been stored oop in Scotland”
“Lemme get this right. You’re modifying old airplanes which have been sub-hunting for 35 years and have then been stored in a salty atmosphere in a country famous for rain? Riiigghhhttt......that’ll work. How’s the program coming along?”
“Now, now, sailor lad. Ferrst ‘un flies in a year or two or therrreabouts. Don’t thee ferrget that we can keep ‘t programme ticking overr nicely for yearrs that way. An’ there’ll be soom nice little sub-contracts cooming tha’ way, tha’ knows.......”, continued the Baron....
“Thank you for your continued interest in our requirements”, concluded the Admiral.
“Wait till I tell Seth and ‘t men at ‘t werrks”, mused the Bungling Baron, “seems we’ve got ‘t Yank contract in ‘t bag!!”