"So, Mike, you're the guy in charge of all this middle-class women factory, right?"
"Yes, Gregg, that's right."
"Tell me, how many of these women do you get through in a day?"
"Well Gregg, we think there's about ten million of them."
"Ten million!! That's a lot of women, Mike. I hope you treat them well?"
"Oh, indeed, Gregg. They're all allowed to have their own opinions, and ideas, and some of them are even able to express themselves."
"Wo-o-o-ow!! So you mean, in these tiny little heads, they've got space for ... thoughts? Is that right?"
"Oh, yes, Gregg. We try to ensure that happens."
"Now then, Mike, earlier on, I started up my own little middle-class woman on your line, by tossing a few cheeky remarks in your mixer. Can we see how it's getting on - sorry, she's getting on - down at this end?"
"Certainly Gregg. As you can see, this one has started fuming by now. And if you listen, you'll probably hear the howling rage. But maybe not. I don't know, are you deaf, or just tone-deaf?"
"Yeah, yeah. This is amazing. I can't believe the little darling is so lively! How long can she keep up this frothing and blazing, Mike?"
"Oh, well past the end of this programme, Gregg. Or indeed, your career."
"Wonderful, wonderful. And I believe the next bit of the factory we need to see is packaging, right? And that's where you get all the Sea Salt jumpers, and Boden skirts, and not forgetting the Barbours, to tart the finished product up a bit?"
"Yes, Gregg. It's all part of our recycling initiative."
"How's that Mike?"
"Well, Gregg, once we've got the product looking attractive and middle-class of a certain age, that's where we can bring you in to kick the whole thing off again. It's really never ending with bald fat blokes of a certain age, like you."