Idon't know what the collective noun for BBC undercover journalists is but I'd imagine Messrs Leahy and King would have a few monosyllabic suggestions. Speaking as a purely impartial Minister of State, my main impression from the Whistleblower show was one of profound loathing for all concerned, from the doe-eyed hacks to the poisoners-general. This, anyway, was what I told Darling Alistair, bless his tousled cotton locks. I'd been summoned to the headmaster's summary (a copy of The Grocer down the back of my chalk-stripes just in case) and reminded that I might consider doing some actual work or find myself seconded to Ruth Kelly for good. Nothing for it but to embark on a programme of unannounced visits to the nation's favourite grocers. This sounds deeply unpleasant I know, but let me tell you it's only half as nice as that. Those unfamiliar with the Leahybunker at Cheshunt can only guess at the horrors in store. The Tesco HQ combines the charisma of Charles Wilson with the modesty of Malcolm Walker: a mournful monument to derelict 1960s car parks amid the dog turds and debris of a condemned industrial estate. And that's just the lobby. I flicked my DRIP visiting card on to the front desk amid a pile of dodgy looking ready meals marked 'Out of Code Samples - Immediate Dispatch to Tesco Express, BBC Branch, White City'. The receptionist wasn't easily persuaded, but eventually a flunkey took me up to the executive floor. Turns out Sir Terry's touring One-Stops in the Grampians, but Le Dauphin Andrew Higginson was counting on his fingers. "What is it, Pumsey? I can give you 30 seconds." The Lancastrian charm was undiminished. I must have blurted out something about competition and land banks because I was out on my ear before you could say "Taiwan".