Oh, gather around, let me tell you a tale,
Of a tycoon named Vince, with ideas off the scale.
A Labour donor, rich and grand,
Yet dressed like a boy with a stick in his hand.
He dreamt of a world fuelled by grass,
Not cows or coal, just a vegan gas.
“On Britain’s margins, the grass shall grow,
Enough for the nation!” he claimed with a glow.
But the biogas mill? A doomed device,
With design so flawed, it couldn’t suffice.
Twelve million pounds went up in smoke,
And left poor Dale as the butt of a joke.
Once profits soared, now they decline,
From fifty mil to the red this time.
Subsidies vanished, the cash flow thinned,
Leaving Dale with projects binned.
But does he stop? Oh, perish the thought!
A new plant’s coming, with lessons taught.
Completion set for twenty-twenty-six,
Yet sceptics wonder: more cash to fix?
Then there’s his diamonds, lab-grown with care,
And Forest Green Rovers, vegan fare.
A football club where the players eat beans,
While critics roll eyes at his lofty dreams.
And let’s not forget the courtroom spat,
His ex-wife Kate got forty mil flat.
With Labour donations and gifts so grand,
She claimed her share of the marital land.
But still Dale dreams, unbowed, unbent,
With pylons rigged and millions spent.
Yet as Octopus and British Gas expand,
His empire stumbles, built on sand.
So here’s to Dale, with his schemes so green,
A maverick tycoon, a profit has-been.
For though he’s mocked from far and wide,
At least the grass is on his side.
Verbal Alchemy 