One night some of the "boys from the back room", "boffins" as we called them, unveiled for me a devilish new contraption.

They were hopeful it could churn out chipped potatoes at an unprecidentally fast rate, and at long last knock the dreaded Germain "Bratkartoffeln" effort for six.

I hated dampening their enthusiasm, but the design flaws were obvious. "Sorry chaps", I said, "But it'll never fry."