Many years ago, I was tasked with doing an undercover story on – wait for it, yawn – drug-taking at Glastonbury. Class A, of course. Anyway in the days of no mobile phone cover it meant yomping over acres, co-ordination via walkie-talkie. Much hassle. We were liaising with the local constabulary too, but our secret weapons were two highly trained individuals from “the regiment.”

These veterans of Northern Ireland were experts in reconnaissance, surveillance and all the dark arts of urban warfare. They would be our spotters. Extra tickets had been acquired at great cost.

Kitted out, we made our discreet entrance. Ten minutes inside the gates, the sound recordist (also undercover) tapped me on the shoulder.

“They’re pretty good those blokes – they’ve totally disappeared into the crowd.”

Half an hour later, we agreed they were playing it cool.

Two days later they finally made contact.

They had found evidence of drug-taking. And alcohol consumption. And live music. All in all they’d had a bloody good time. And we weren’t to worry about the fee. No charge.