Nathan, in keeping with his new role, is the perfect host. Charm, it turns out, comes easy to him, and he coaxes Mitch to open up about the life of a London-based investigative reporter. Mitch, as I know only too well, is world-class when it comes to professional camouflage, preferring to watch and listen rather than talk, but he allows Nathan a peek or two at just how tough the media business has become. Try to sell anything these days, he says, and you join the race to the bottom. Everything’s going tabloid. No one has any time, nor – when it comes to making a living – do they have any money.

‘Which I imagine puts the onus on you?’

‘Of course. Big time. You have to find the sweet spot. You have to touch the right nerve. I used to spend weeks, sometimes months, getting on top of some really complex stories.’

‘Like?’

‘Financial scandals, mainly. Sometimes corporate stuff, sometimes international tax issues, sometimes huge political fuck-ups, often around procurement, and the figures involved would blow your mind. It was worthy and fascinating but a complete waste of time. You end up talking to yourself because no one’s listening.’

‘And why might that be?’

‘Because you have to concentrate to understand this stuff, and because – in the end – no one gives a shit. It either boils down to fraud or incompetence, and both turn out to be like the weather, just a fact of life. Always was, always will be. Get over it. Have another drink. That’s great if you happen to be minted but sadly most people aren’t, and it’s them that sad old bastards like me start worrying about.’

‘Which makes you a socialist?’

‘Of course. And that’s another car crash. Especially after Thursday.’

‘Bit of a shame, I imagine.’

‘Fucking disaster. Do I blame Brexit? Yes. Do I blame Corbyn? Yes. Do I still have a living to make? Yes.’

Nathan nods. I can tell he’s enjoying this. I also sense he has just a grain or two of admiration for Mitch’s candour.

‘Race to the bottom?’ he muses. ‘Where does that take you?’

‘Don’t ask. Benjamin Franklin once said that nothing matters in life but death and taxes, and in my book he got the first bit spot-on. Death sells. And so does sex. And so do cooking programmes. We’ve hit peak obvious, peak in-your-face. Everyone dies. Everyone wants to get laid. Everyone’s after something different on their plate. Address any of those, and you’ll probably earn a quid or two. Tax havens in Monaco or the Caymans? Forget it. Consultants trousering billions on government contracts? So retro. Vagina-scented candles? Bring ’em on.’