George threw his head back and laughed. ‘I’ll have to remember that one,’ he said.
‘I love those shows,’ said Ben, eager to get back into a conversation from which he felt he had been excluded for too long. ‘When you see animals ripping each other apart.’ He made a tiger face and presented his hands as claws. ‘Grrrr,’ he said.
‘My point is,’ said Margaret, ignoring him. ‘While the average man or woman on the street is smart enough to know that you meant no offence, the Twitterati is not. Are not. Is not. And they want your head.’
‘Well, they can’t have it.’
‘Then we must do something to keep it attached to your shoulders.’
‘I’m extremely sorry,’ said Ben, sitting up straight again and repeating his earlier mantra. ‘It was never my intention to offend and I apologize unreservedly—’
George interrupted him. ‘Do you know how long I’ve been at the BBC?’ he asked.
‘I do, of course,’ replied Margaret. ‘And I have nothing but respect for you and all that you’ve—’
‘I am the man who called Enoch Powell a racist to his face on live television, causing him to rip off his microphone and storm off the set. I am the man who got Ronald Reagan to re-enact his “Where’s the rest of me?” scene from Kings Row in front of a studio audience while he was still President of the United States, making him look like a complete buffoon. I am the man who handed a condom to Pope John Paul the Second and asked him did he know what it was.’
‘An unwrapped condom at that,’ added Ben, nodding in support.
‘Unused, in fairness,’ added George.
‘I know all that,’ said Margaret. ‘But—’
‘But me no buts!’ cried George cheerfully. ‘I am the man who did all those things and more. Hundreds more. I have met everyone, interviewed everyone, fought with everyone, fallen out with everyone, written obituaries for everyone and, as dear Elton so memorably sang, I’m still standing.’
‘Yeah, yeah, yeah,’ sang Ben, sotto voce, while doing a little bit with his hands.
‘The trick is not to add fuel to this fire, Margaret. If we give it oxygen, it will continue to roar and the flames will engulf us all. The best thing to do is just sit it out and wait for someone else to cock up. And they will, rest assured. Lineker or Hislop or Norton or one of that lot. They’ll say something untoward, they’ll be the villains of the week, all this will be forgotten, and I will return to my place on the stage as a national treasure, along with my dear friends David, Judi and Maggie.’
‘Dear Maggie,’ said Ben with a sigh.
George leaned back in his chair and adopted his reminiscing pose. ‘I remember I had her on the show once. Well, many times, of course, but on this particular occasion—’
‘George, please,’ said Margaret. ‘Can we stay on topic?’
‘Just a moment,’ he replied. ‘You’ll like this. Not a lot, as darling Paul used to say.’
‘Darling Paul,’ said Ben. ‘He once made me disappear.’
‘Enough!’ shouted Margaret.
The two men fell silent and looked down at their hands, momentarily chastened.
‘Now, I’ve had a word with the Director-General,’ she continued, ‘and obviously, we’ll support you a hundred per cent while publicly disassociating ourselves from everything you’ve said. But it would be very helpful if you could make some sort of statement in the meantime to express your regret. Nothing as flowery as what Bob suggested. Just something to take the heat off you.’
‘Ben,’ said Ben.
‘Something simple and uncontroversial.’
‘Fine,’ said George, throwing his hands in the air. ‘I give in. I am Napoleon surrendering to Wellington after the Battle of Waterloo.’
‘At least you don’t have delusions of grandeur,’ replied Margaret.
‘Very true. I am an ’umble man. Ever so ’umble. And if it will put this whole nonsense to bed and mean that I can get back to work, I’m willing to say a few conciliatory words. When do you want me to do it?’
Margaret glanced at the clock on the wall. ‘This evening on the Six O’Clock News,’ she said. ‘Sophie will ask you a few questions and then you’ll say whatever needs to be said and we can put the entire matter behind us, all right? Which gives you a few hours to prepare. Bob, I’m trusting you on this.’
‘Of course, Mildred, said Ben.
THE LAST NIGHT OF YOUR LIFE
An awkward silence fell upon the hall when Nelson stepped inside, and he stood up straight, pulling on his belt, while appreciating the attention that was coming his way. If there had ever been a time when he needed to exude confidence, then this was it. Walking towards the cash desk, he could feel the eyes of everyone in the room turn towards him, while a middle-aged man wearing a shell-suit picked up his bag and made his way quickly out of the door.
Seated behind the desk was a woman in her late thirties with badly dyed hair. As Nelson approached her, she glanced up from her copy of Grazia and looked him up and down appreciatively.
‘One ticket, please,’ said Nelson, handing across a ten-pound note, and she rooted in her cash box to give him his change, along with a sticker with a number on it, Number 37, which he attached to his tunic.
A few dozen people were gathered in the hall, most standing awkwardly on their own, staring at their phones, and Nelson glanced at his watch. He’d timed his arrival thinking that proceedings would begin soon after he walked through the door and, perhaps because his clothing brought an air of authority into the room, a woman made her way towards the microphone stand and leaned into it, obeying the constitutional obligation to ask ‘Is this thing on?’ so close to the grille that she sent a stab of reverb around the room, causing everyone to rear back and cover their ears.
‘Can you hear me?’ she asked.
‘They can hear you, Alice,’ shouted the cashier, whose own name tag read Belinda. ‘So get on with it, you daft cow.’
‘Oh good,’ said Alice, beaming with joy. ‘Well, you’re all very welcome here tonight. Some of you have been here before – yes, I recognize you desperate people! – but some of you are new. All of you, I expect, are a little nervous, but I hope you’re excited too because’ – and here she raised her voice again – ‘tonight might be THE LAST NIGHT OF YOUR LIFE!’
Her face exploded in happiness and she broke into applause as the people gathered before her turned to look at each other in confusion, uncertain whether they had heard her correctly.
‘Dozy mare,’ muttered Belinda, who had sidled up beside Nelson now and was getting perilously close to touching him. In fact, he was certain that he could feel one of her hands stroking his left buttock.
‘No, I got that wrong, didn’t I?’ said Alice, frowning. ‘It’s not the last night of your life. I mean, it might be, but who’s to say? Anything could happen. No, what I meant was’ – voice raising again – ‘tonight might be the last night of the rest of your life!’
A groan from the audience.
‘No, that’s not it either, is it? Oh dear, I’m so sorry, it’s—’