Things were not going well for ‘t Bungling Baron Waste o’ Space. “WHO DOES’T THAT BOOGER HOON THINK HE IS” he bellowed to no-one in particular. Pieces of part-digested sheep’s bladder tart flew from his mouth as he exploded at Hoon’s remarks. Old Scrotum, his aged and wrinkled retainer, crept quietly from his presence; only the presence of Boogeroff, his trusty but flatulent whippet mellowed the outraged Baron. As Boogeroff skilfully intercepted a particularly large and odious chunk of half-eaten ovine gall bladder, ‘t Baron continued “Old mad Maggie would never have got us in such a pickle. Back in them days, ‘t werrks werr kept busy wi’ all mannerr o’ contracts for ‘t Airr Forrce. Now we’ve got soom lad in a pink romperr suit as ‘t Prime Ministerr an’ all’s gone to boogery. Them down South have complained about ‘t Nimrod bein’ late, ‘t Bureaufighterr bein’ a bit overr ‘t budget an’ now this! Well, I’ll go to the foot o’owerr stairrs. Don’t he understand about ‘t jobs of ‘t lads in ‘t werrks? There’s British pride at stake, tha’ knows. Not to mention ‘t brass as we’re gettin’ from ‘t sub-contracts!”
But no-one was listening to ‘t Baron. Knowing there were trouble at ‘t mill, Seth was down at ‘t werrks trying to keep ‘t lads busy trying to complete the first batch of TypHoons for ‘t Airr Forrce before 2010, ‘t lads at Woodford were trying to make ‘t wings fit ‘t Nimrods and ‘t lads in research were trying to work out how to build an aircraft carrier which would float. Old Scrotum was mumbling to himself in his pantry, even Boogeroff was hiding from his master’s rage. Was this the end? Would things ever get back to ‘t cosy times when ‘t golden share had kept the Baron’s coffers full of brass...........who knows. Or rather, Hoon knows, perhaps....