I've found the angriest place in London: the livid, throbbing nexus of indignation and choler, where the mean air temperature is always boiling point, and rage baked in to the fabric of the building. It's the crossroads of umbrage where all the traffic lights are stuck on red.

And centigrade 100 plus is...the Associated Newspapers building, where every morning the latest edition of a hot under the collar, enraged, surly, resentful Daily Mail is sent scuttling into the world.

I've wondered why the security guards in the lobby all wear asbestos gloves; I know now - every surface is too hot to touch.

Hot coals instead of carpets to angrily stride on ? I'd bet my last euro that's the case.

What a place it must be to work in: mockery in the Gents, sneers in the Ladies, jeers in the corridors. Everyone, surely, must talk in italics, or emboldened UPPER CASE, or both at the same time. Talk... sorry, a typo, I meant bellow...

I've been trying to conjure up what a typical office there must look like. Everything, obviously, must be in black and white, though I fancy, things are shot through with lightening bolts of puce and crimson. Specially strengthened handsets - need to be, all that disgusted slamming down; keyboards the same, reinforced to take the pounding only irritated fingers can make.

I see people working there having just two expressions: righteous caviling, or more likely, open-mouthed incandescent fury (for some reason, the rictus like horror of Francis Bacon's "Pope" comes into my mind here).

Too enraged for courtesy either ("do you mind, got to write an article bemoaning it's apparent disappearance"), so it'll be sharp elbows and barging through to get anywhere.

I had trouble wondering what the logo on their flag might be, then it hit me. Obvious. Two crossed beta-blockers on a pulsating vermilion background.

When I'm in that part of Kensington next and it's raining, I shall check to see whether the rain does n't instantly turn to steam the second it hits the building. Spooky place.