I could tell we were getting nearer Fox’s fortress by the growing sound of jungle drum machines in the distance. That and the heads strewn around the corridor.
There are few things quite as electric as the last few moments before a live broadcast, although urinating on a malfunctioning power generator comes close.
Secretaries were tossing office supplies into a bonfire, around which the technical staff cavorted, chanting the lyrics to “My Sharona” and playing air-guitar.