Hardly had the Cadbury bunny emitted her agonized death rattle when the DRIP Batphone trilled to signify a communication from my liege Lord Mandacity.

He's in the Alps for the duration, suppressing the mogul hordes (on his snowboard at least) and generally prepping the annual Fête du Nez Brun at the Davos schmoozefest.

Normally, Mandy mewed, he would be in Uxbridge himself but could I pleeeasse fill in for him as head of HMG's delegation for Irene Rosenfeld as she pops round to pick up the keys to Cadbury from the estate agent, "Please make me Sir" Roger Carr.

Thus it was that Danaher gave the ministerial G-Wiz (damn the bloody green lobby) an extra coat of Pledge and off we dashed at top speed (13mph with a following wind) to Luton to greet the great lady at the steps of her private Messerschmitt. I won't say she exactly smiled, but then her smiles are controlled animatronically by the Ray-Ban touting spin mafia that make up her entourage.

Poor Irene's voice has the kind of cracked and shrill quality which, when employed by the CIA's counter-insurgency teams, is used to clear US satellite states of dangerous democratically elected lefties. So you can imagine the effect it had on the already careworn Oompa Loompas, trembling in the great glass Uxbridge HQ (rather like the famed elevator - kind of appropriate, given that most of them are about to get shafted).

Confidentiality forbids me from disclosing the details of Rosenkrank's conversation with outgoing CEO Todd Stitzer: suffice to say she was not greeted with the type of toadying she will be used to from her Krafty flunkeys.

In fact, she copped more than one Cadbury Finger from a very Hot Toddy. But normal service was quickly resumed. Perhaps it was product-tasting day at Cadbury but there were cohorts of suspiciously brown noses from the local management. They've already worked out which side their Curly Wurlys are buttered on.

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