hen I was 24 and working on a glossy magazine, I decided I wanted to see what went on behind the scenes at my favourite television programme, y. So I called up the BBC press office and asked if I could spend a Saturday hanging about the studio. They said I could. It all seems like a dream now. Like some sort of-type fantasy where the snot-nosed urchin is handed a golden ticket to explore his own personal Xanadu. But
