TV CLEVERLEY IN FRESH SCANDAL!
screamed the headline, and she closed her eyes, wondering whether she would ever be given some respite from her family’s dramas. She felt something damp licking at her toes and looked down to see Ustym Karmaliuk standing on the carpet next to her feet, and smiled. Reaching down, she picked him up and placed him on her lap, stroking his shell tenderly.
‘You’re going to live with me from now on,’ she whispered. ‘Instead of with that nasty, lying, deceiving piece of shit.’
The tortoise remained silent, expressing no preferences about his accommodation, and, after a moment, she placed him on one end of the table, where he began to make gallant efforts to make his way to the other side, where the promise of an uneaten After Eight lay within its wrapper. As he crawled along, she returned to the newspaper, where the head of Disability Rights UK was calling on the BBC to sack ‘the prominent and much-loved television presenter George Cleverley, who referred to those with physical disabilities as “cripples” in a now-deleted tweet’.
‘Oh, for Christ’s sake,’ she said, taking another swig from her glass and, a moment later, her husband plodded into the room with a forlorn expression on his face.
‘I see you’ve fucked up again,’ muttered Beverley, nodding towards the newspaper.
‘So it would seem.’
‘First you’re transphobic. Then you’re a racist. And now you hate disabled people.’
‘Apparently, I’m anti-Semitic too, although there doesn’t seem to be any real evidence for that one. Why are you home anyway? I thought you were going to stay in Ukraine for a few days?’
‘My plans changed,’ she said. ‘There was nothing there for me.’
‘Nothing for your novel, you mean?’
‘Nothing for my novel. Is this going to blow up even more?’
‘I expect so,’ he said, collapsing into an armchair. ‘They’re out to get me and won’t be happy until I’ve been stripped naked, dragged through the streets of London and dumped head first in the Thames.’
‘Who?’ asked Beverley. ‘Who won’t be happy?’
‘The POOTs.’
‘Oh, why do you even pay attention, George?’ she asked, frustrated by how personally he took all of this. ‘Who cares what they think? These people live in an echo chamber. Well, most of them still live with their parents, but you know what I mean.’
‘Because I don’t like it when they say terrible things about me. A man’s reputation is all he has.’
‘You also have this house,’ she pointed out. ‘And about ten million quid in the bank. None of the POOTs has that.’
‘It just frustrates me, since I’ve been a dyed-in-the-wool liberal my entire life. You of all people know that.’
‘I do, yes,’ admitted Beverley.
‘What’s most upsetting is how things seem to have changed. I’m starting to feel that nowadays there’s no one more bigoted than a liberal. The right-wingers, at least they own their hatred and don’t try to dress it up in anything other than the intolerant, narrow-minded, self-serving bullshit that it is. You know where you are with the Right. But the Left? My God, disagree with them for even a moment, dare to ask a question or deviate from the company line, and they’re on you like flies on shit. They won’t stand for even an iota of disagreement, pleading for kindness while masking their own intolerance in sanctimony. It’s McCarthyism hidden beneath the umbrella of Wokeness.’
‘As I understand it,’ said Beverley with a sigh, ‘Wokeness is about creating a fairer and more equal society.’
‘It might have started out like that,’ replied George, looking downcast. ‘At the beginning, its heart was in the right place. But now it’s about nothing more than tearing people down, stalking them on social media and, if they can get away with it, destroying the lives of strangers. Usually successful strangers, I might add. I’ve spent my entire life trying to be a decent, honourable man, and look where it’s got me. You know, earlier today, some lunatic posted an eighteen-tweet-thread about what a monster I am. A man who’s never even met me and yet presumes to know everything about me.’
‘Yes, but someone like that has mental health issues. Why give him the time of day?’
‘That doesn’t make it any easier. It’s cruel, Beverley. It’s bullying. Nothing more, nothing less.’
‘George, you’re not … you’re not crying, are you?’
He shook his head and wiped his eyes, surprised to find that he was. ‘It hurts, that’s all. It really fucking hurts. These people have no decency.’
Beverley breathed in heavily through her nose. ‘You don’t think that you bear some responsibility for all of this, though, do you? You are the common denominator, after all.’
George shrugged. He was too tired to argue. ‘I don’t know,’ he said. ‘Perhaps I’m just getting too old to be let loose on the world. Everything I say seems to offend someone. When all I’m actually trying to do is help.’
‘But you’re helping the wrong way.’
He smiled. ‘Someone else said that to me a while ago.’
‘Who?’
‘Oh, just someone at the Beeb.’ He thought about this for a moment and then his face took on a look of horror. ‘Oh shit,’ he said.
‘What’s wrong?’ asked Beverley.
‘What time is it?’
She glanced at her watch. ‘Nearly half past ten,’ she said.
‘Damn.’
‘All the blood has drained from your face.’
‘I was supposed to make a phone call, that’s all. Before close of play. It went completely out of my mind.’
‘Something important?’
‘Someone important.’
‘Who?’
George looked at his wife and considered his answer carefully.
‘Nobody,’ he said.
They both turned around as they heard the sound of the front door opening and Elizabeth walked into the living room.
‘And what’s the matter with you?’ asked George.
‘I broke up with Wilkes.’
George kept his features entirely still. ‘How terrible,’ he said. ‘He seemed like a keeper. I am distraught.’
‘Oh, darling,’ said Beverley, standing up, giving her a hug and pouring her a glass of wine. ‘It really is for the best. How did he take it? Was he terribly upset?’
‘Absolutely devastated,’ said Elizabeth. ‘He turned on the waterworks, of course. It was like Niagara Falls pouring down his cheeks.’
‘Well, it’s a bit of a wash, at least.’
‘But I held firm. I told him that my mind was made up and we shouldn’t be sorry that it was over; instead, we should be happy that it happened.’
‘Darling, that’s beautiful. Did you come up with it?’
‘No, I think it was Dr Seuss.’
‘Well, good for you anyway.’
‘I’ve washed my hands of him, Mother. Both literally and metaphorically.’
‘You did the right thing,’ agreed Beverley. ‘As it happens, I’ve sworn off men for the time being too. All they do is deceive you.’