One of the most disturbing interviews I've ever conducted was with a chap called Billy
Bunker, who was his name. Awful man. Awful, awful pedophile.
So, I gather you have a competition, Mr. Bunker, sir.
That's right. Yes.
Because I'm opening my factory again. Once again, my doors are opening to welcome
lovely, lovely new generation of children. And I want every child in East London
to experience the wonders of every milking cranny of my factory.
I want them to sample all the delicious flavors and delights of the adult world of sweets.
I need to come through my doors, come in droves, and my golden tickets are going to beckon them
like a pie piper, summoning his little errant troupe of followers into its welcoming bosom.
I couldn't have put it more richly myself, Mr. Bunker.
Why?
He made sweets, and I remember he offered me some of his sweets, and there was something
about them. I just couldn't stop eating them.
Yes, there were lots of competitors trying to steal all my special recipes.
I don't know, there were government departments poking their noses in, trying to find out
what my special ingredients were. That was one of the many reasons I decided to take off
the heat a little bit. I don't like my secret recipes to get out.
They are secret. That's the meaning of the word secret. Secret means no one tells.
It's terribly important that no one tells about your secret recipes.
And of course, the many missing children in the factory, but that's for another time.
Never mind.
I don't know what you're talking about, Jeremy.
I don't know either. It's just pure speculation, isn't it, Mr. Bunker?
Would you like another of my special Turkish delight?
Oh, I would. Yes, they are.
Take special notice of the white, powdery dusting around them.
Mmm.
Feel how it tingles on your gum.
Yes, I accidentally inhaled some of that earlier on.
And the more I ate them, the more a mist descended over my eyes and my brain felt like it was
held in an iron grip of ice.
The lights are so sparkly in the studio today.
Oh, yes.
There you go.
All the colors of my control panel are glistening like some 80s Technicolor nightmare.
Fantastic, isn't it?
Mmm. I think you should have some more.
Do not trust Billy Bunker and his confectionaries of doom.
I warn you now, if you take anything that Billy Bunker gives you, God knows where you end up.
I've forgotten my drift, will I?
Mmm. Have another one of those Turkish delights.
I think I will.
Mmm.
You're very Moorish.
Very, very awesome.
Moorish.
Lick your fingers.
The voices of the producers in my ears seem modulated like they are distant spirits from another age.
Mmm. Perhaps they are.
What? Huh?
Get this freak off the show now.
What?
He is a confectionary God.
