‘Ah, them,’ said George, frowning.
‘They seem particularly energized.’
‘Indeed. They’re furious at me for doing something to support their cause. My bad, as the young people say. And the next lot?’
‘The Friends of Israel. They say you’re anti-Semitic.’
‘Anti-Semitic?’ asked George, surprised. ‘That’s a new one. What on earth have I done to upset the Jews? I don’t recall saying anything about them.’
‘I think they just assume that you hate them too,’ said Samir.
‘That’s a bit presumptuous, isn’t it?’
‘They’re very insistent.’
‘The truth is, I don’t hate anyone,’ protested George. ‘Except all those morons with nothing better to do than stand around here on a Thursday morning waving idiotic signs in the air. I despise them.’
‘Perhaps it would be best not to say that to their faces.’
‘They wouldn’t understand anyway. The cheese fell off their crackers a long time ago. Anyway, that’s three groups. What about the group hanging around outside Wogan House? Those six overweight white men who look like they’ve never been laid in their lives? What am I supposed to have done to them?’
‘Actually, they’re not here for you, Mr Cleverley,’ said Samir. ‘They’re Doctor Who fans and they show up every week to protest the fact that the Doctor is being played by a woman.’
‘Oh, for God’s sake,’ replied George, rolling his eyes. ‘They can’t still be upset about that, surely? It must be three years by now, and she’s leaving anyway.’
‘They take the Time Lord very seriously.’
‘There’s not one of them would even fit inside the Tardis. I don’t care how big it is. But look, how am I supposed to get inside the building with all those fools screaming for my blood? I have a meeting with the top brass, and I don’t want to get murdered before I get fired. I’d lose out on my pay-off.’
Samir sucked in his breath and shook his head. ‘There’s not much for it, I’m afraid,’ he said. ‘You’ll just have to make a run for it, that’s all. I’ll come with you, to keep you safe. And maybe the driver …?’
‘You can leave me out of it,’ came the reply from the front seat. ‘I drive. I don’t walk.’
‘Then just the two of us,’ said Samir. ‘Come on, Mr Cleverley. We’ll go quickly so you won’t get hurt.’
‘All right,’ said George with a sigh, paying the cab driver his fare and adding a five-pound tip. ‘Let’s do it.’
Samir opened the door and all heads turned in their direction as they made their way across the concourse, although George kept his bowed, hoping that the protestors might not recognize him. But, within a few seconds, a cry went up and they rushed in his direction, surrounding him with animalistic expressions on their faces. Once they had him trapped within a circle, he stared around anxiously but offered them his most ingratiating smile. They might all be pretending to hate him, he knew, but they’d also love the opportunity to spend a few minutes in the warm glow of celebrity.
‘Please, everyone,’ shouted Samir. ‘You need to step away. If you don’t—’
‘No, it’s all right, honestly,’ said George, touching his arm and turning to the mob. ‘Actually, I think what you’re all doing here is commendable and I’m happy to answer your questions. This whole thing, you see, has been an enormous misunderstanding. Let’s cool the temperature a little, though and, oh, by the way,’ he added, looking at one of placards that a young woman was holding, ‘there’s an e before the last letter of my surname. Your sign says Fuck George Cleverly, but it should say Fuck George Cleverley.’
The woman looked up at the sign that she’d painted earlier.
‘Oh, I’m terribly sorry,’ she said. ‘You don’t have a Sharpie on you, do you?’
‘I don’t, I’m afraid,’ replied George. ‘And it’s perfectly fine. No apology needed. It’s actually quite a common mistake. Joan Plowright gets it wrong on her Christmas-card envelope every year and we’ve known each other for decades. Funny story, as it happens. It was Larry Olivier who—’
‘Do you feel no shame?’ shouted a man who was dressed a bit like Joseph from Joseph and the Amazing Technicolor Dreamcoat but lacked the athletic body that actors in that role usually displayed.
‘I feel a great deal of shame,’ said George. ‘But perhaps you could narrow down what I’m supposed to feel ashamed about?’
‘Your racism, man!’
‘But I’m not a racist! I’m genuinely not. I have plenty of black friends.’
‘That’s such a racist thing to say!’
‘Well, what would you have me say?’ asked George. ‘That I don’t have any? That I exclude them from my social circle? The fact is, I do. And I see them regularly. If I was a racist, I wouldn’t do that, would I? I’d … I don’t know … I’d poison them when they came for dinner. I’d put arsenic in the bouillabaisse.’
‘Name some!’ asked a woman standing to his left.
‘Well, there’s Trevor McDonald,’ he said, thinking about it. ‘And Moira Stuart. She’s a lovely woman. Lenny Henry. Ian Wright. I’m quite friendly with James Cleverly, the Conservative Party chairman, although he’s no relation. And, interestingly, he doesn’t have a third e in his surname.’
‘They’re all famous black people,’ said Joseph. ‘Don’t you have any not-famous black friends?’
‘Alan Gillingham,’ said George. ‘And his wife, Rose. Deborah Carlyle. Steven MacDaid.’
‘Who are they? No one’s ever heard of them!’
‘Well, you wouldn’t have, would you? You asked for not-famous black people.’
‘At least you’re saying black,’ said a woman with a rich Trinidadian accent. ‘And not coloured. Who say coloured these days? You think God take the white canvas and Him break out the crayons before putting us in our mothers’ bellies?’
‘I admit, it was a poor choice of word,’ said George. ‘But it was in the heat of the moment. You have no idea how warm it can be under the lights in a television studio.’
‘You’re a big fat racist bastard!’ shouted someone from the back of the crowd.
‘Well, really,’ protested George, turning to look in the direction of the voice. ‘I do think that’s a little unfair. I may have put on a few pounds lately, but I’m hardly—’
‘Trans rights are human rights!’ cried a person of indeterminate gender, pushing his, her or their way towards the front of the crowd, and George nodded his head, even as he took a step back in fright.
‘They are,’ he agreed. ‘They most certainly are.’
‘You want to put us all in concentration camps, don’t you? To be ethnically cleansed!’
‘I don’t want anything of the sort!’ said George. ‘When have I ever said such a thing? Although it’s worth pointing out that, if that were to happen, it wouldn’t be considered ethnic cleansing. That term relates specifically to the eradication of racial or religious groups.’