Due to this obsession, I decided to follow my dream and become a chocolatier. I couldn’t open my own chocolate factory, so I started to make my own in the basement. The main problem was, I didn’t actually know how to create my own chocolate. I tried throwing together some sugar and cocoa beans (or the closest equivalent I had; instant coffee granules) in the oven, but I just got a hot, soggy mess. Obviously, I didn’t have the technical nous to create my own, so I would have to employ a workforce to do the tough stuff such as creating the recipes, making the chocolate, wrapping it up, and selling it for a tidy profit. In other words, I would have to rely on others to do everything for me, which is essentially my life’s motto. I put out an advert in the local paper:
“Want to work in my basement for no wages in order to create unproven chocolate products? Apply here today!”
There was a surprising lack of applicants. My workforce only grew by one individual, a rat which had taken up residence in my basement. He didn’t know a great deal about chocolate making, but knew an awful lot about biting people. So I resolved to go and catch my own workers.
Judging by Roald Dahl’s famous book (James And The Giant Peach), I’d need a whole legion of little people in order to create my confectionary utopia. Willy Wonka enslaved a whole race of midgets in to fulfil his chocolately destiny. I guessed that I would have to do the same.
|My favourite Roald Dahl book, The Twits|
Finding midgets is quite difficult if you don’t know where to look. Fortunately, there was a travelling freak show in town, so I visited and started to catch them in a burlap sack. Some of the other freaks were a little confused and asked what I was doing, so I told them about needing some workers for my chocolate factory. The freaks were rather keen on the idea, perhaps because the freak show business is a tad demeaning, and agreed to come and work for me instead.
My workforce was now comprised of two dwarves, a giant, a bearded lady, and a straight man who enjoys shopping for shoes. I showed them my basement and set them to work.
After several painstaking weeks (none of the freaks knew how to make chocolate either), we eventually produced a bar of chocolate. As it laid there on the workbench, we glanced at each other in silence, wondering who was brave enough to take the first bite. Eventually, I took the plunge and bit off a small square. It tasted like chocolate and it didn’t immediately kill me. It was good! Full production could now begin.
As my minions churned out bar after bar of delicious brown delights, I began to dream bigger. Taking inspiration from that fateful Roald Dahl story that became my initial inspiration (The BFG), I began to imagine grander candy projects that we could manufacture. What about edible window glass? Purple Kit Kats? Popping candy that splits the atom? I set my team the task of working on these dream products in the hopes of becoming the most famous and radical confectioner ever!
Unfortunately, we were due a health inspection, and the inspector wasn’t particularly impressed by our range of nuclear liquorice. He was even less enthralled by the rat, who we let nibble a piece of each chocolate bar to ensure it was edible. I thought our rodent solution to quality control was an elegant solution, but the inspector disagreed and promptly shut us down. This has left me with a lot of waste product, so if anyone wants some free tumour-inducing liquorice, just let me know.