The other day I received via an Ocado tricycle courier or somesuch an invitation to the country seat of no less than the Hon. David Cameron MP, leader of Her Majesty's Loyal Opposition and chinless wonder of the Western world.

What's a loyal servant of the Gordian Knot to do? This would be a betrayal of the highest order, so it could only be in the interest of even higher orders (Bath? Star of India?) that the Pumserian Bugatti swept down the mile-long gravel drive to the Boy David's third-biggest gazebo.

No sooner had I got there, however, than the ministerial pager pinged. There it was, in cold brown, sickly ink the news that Kraftwerk Inc had launched an offer for Cadbury so unpalatable it put even its own synthetic product range to shame.

This isn't a case of ministerial nimbyism, a fear that one of the last fine British institutions is stolen by an American usurper, while we are left picking up the tab for Vauxhall and other lousy US imports.

No. Any company that replaces adverts featuring naked totty fellating a choccy bar with those showing a gorilla doing Phil Collins impressions pretty much deserves what it gets.

And, with his spats-like shirts, there is something caddish about the American-born Cadbury CEO.

Yet Kraftwerk Inc, that fag-butt of Philip Morris, is ineffably more awful, with its aerosol cheese, nuclear bunker macarone and iridescent desserts.

The fact that it generates most of its flagging revenue from slack-jawed retards in Oklahoma tells you most of what you need to know. It also doesn't seem to know how to spell Dime/Daim/Dajm bar, which is worrying for a company that's supposed to be offering such big bucks/barks/bux.

Naturally, I rejected Cameron's offer with a Cadbury-like élan. But in the end it's all a question of valuation, isn't it? David, you have my account details.