"He he he" chortled 't Bungling Baron Waste o' Space as he fondled the ears of Boogeroff, his trusty but ever-flatulent whippet. "Didn't I tell thee that old mad Maggie had promised there'd allus be summat' for 't men at 't werrks. Now they've stumped oop wi 't brass, we can get 't owd Comet Mk 8 airrborrne in a year or few, 'appen?" His chuckling increased to a crescendo and the bells on his best clog-dancing trousers tintinabulated merrily. In fact his mood became so cheerful that he sanctioned a second bowl of gruel for 't men at 't werrks whilst he tucked into Medaillons of cow's udder served in a wild toadstool, dandelion and burrdock jus from 'Albert's brasserie - devoted to Northern Nouvelle Cuisine, tha' knows...'.