We were somewhere around Barstow, on the edge of the desert, when the
drugs began to take hold. I remember cynic
saying something like:

Where did they get their "expert" as if he had any sort of
professional status his learned society ought to take him to task.

In all probability, the 'expert' did actually give some sort of feasible
explanation but it went over the luvvies' heads entirely, which left the
door open for a whizz-bang demo of burning stuff.

Either that, or the 'expert' was just a bloke down the pub, who one of
the producer's mates spoke to one drunken night.