This is the Guardian.

Today is it time to invest in a bunker for the apocalypse?

In 108, turn light.

So we're driving down some windy country roads.

There are trees on either side and there's just a mist over the horizon.

Which seems quite fitting when we're going on this mystery journey.

I produced a rosinite, had travelled deep into the Essex countryside.

After about an hour of driving, I could see the dense foliage of the woods.

In orange, brown and red, starting to break up.

And the horizon opening up to us, onto green fields.

The car's stopping.

And we're getting out.

We walked down a dirt track and passed an old wooden hut on stealth.

The kind that someone might have used to keep watch from.

There's a sign up ahead.

It says, welcome, secret bunker.

Alright, okay, in we go.

Into a patch of woodland, a few meters on.

And then we see this brown stone building.

And there's a man standing outside it.

He's got grey, wiery hair and has a pair of glasses hanging around his neck on a string.

His hands are in his pockets as he walks towards us.

...