To think he should have to put up with lollygaggers and pettifoggers like the bone-idle Bewg! Vast gloomy factories don’t run themselves; even automated monstrosities like the heart machine in Fritz Lang’s Metropolis require the ceaseless toil of a workforce of termite-like workers. Lenient treatment of the Bewgs of this world spells disaster.

I can only hope that years spent chipping soot and clinker from the inside of Mr Git’s furnace with his bare and broken fingernails have in some small way modified Bewg’s entirely inadequate approach to his job, but I fear he is beyond salvation.