There are tired terraced houses, grey flats, black and blue plastic council bins. Chocolate wrappers drift in the gutters, and coiled barbed wire lies across the top of a high brick wall and metal railings. The distillery yard, tarmac, is grimly functional. Health and safety signs litter the walls and doors, barking warnings in blue, red and yellow. The only green is the paint on metal roller doors. Reception is a grubby square carpet with a seventies serving hatch, looking in to an office piled messy-high with papers and a jam of desks. We’re kitted out with lurid orange caps...