Sky News, to find out what a group of middle-aged men down the pub in Bradford made of it all.

The New York Times, to find out why their journalists had been predicting this for years.

The Mail Online, to find out whether it might interfere with a Love Islander’s holiday plans.

And, finally, Fox News, to find out why none of it was going to happen anyway because it was all a vast left-wing conspiracy dreamed up by a bunch of liberal elites and Hollywood perverts.

Today, however, he was afraid to look at any of these. Going to bed the night before, he knew that the last thing he needed was to have the bloody thing buzzing constantly as friends messaged to say how sorry they were that he was being put through such aggravation, even though he knew they were secretly delighted to see him being publicly shamed, and so he’d switched his phone off entirely.

A knock came on the door and Elizabeth poked her head around.

‘You’re awake, then?’ she said.

‘I am.’

‘Do you want to know what’s been going on since you went to bed?’

‘I do not.’

‘Well, you’re on the front page of all the broadsheets. And the tabloids too. Actually, pretty much every newspaper is leading with you.’

‘And if I’d said that I did want to know what had been going on, would you have left me alone and told me nothing?’

‘It’s better that you know,’ said Elizabeth, glancing around a room that she had rarely entered since childhood. She could remember many happy Decembers searching for presents with her brothers in the wardrobes and under the bed. ‘At least, this way, you’re prepared.’

‘You’re very thoughtful,’ he replied. ‘The Cordelia to my Lear. Now get out.’

She shrugged her shoulders but, to his relief, left. Feeling so much anxiety that he worried he might be about to have a heart attack, he decided that he had no choice but to reach for the instrument of his potential downfall and face whatever monsters lay in store for him. It took about a minute for it to burst into life but, once it did, the texts began to pour in. He scrolled through the names, his thumb swiping up the screen as he scanned them quickly. Various journalists, a few politicians and a bunch of older celebrities all sending messages of support and saying that they didn’t know what all the fuss was about. He’d delete them later. The only one he engaged with was from his producer, Ben Bimbaum, who told him that they needed to talk, and could he be at the BBC at eleven o’clock.

George Cleverley

I’m always at the BBC at eleven o’clock. You could set your watch by me.

He’d barely sent the message when the little dots appeared on the screen to show that Ben was replying. He must have been staring at his screen, contemplating the flatness of the Earth, waiting for George to turn his phone on.