‘Not really, no.’

‘So, if I was on trial for murder, but I’d happened to be away photographing penguins in the Arctic at the time the crime was committed, you’d say that I should plead guilty and go down for life because “it’s a lot easier that way”?’

‘I would in that instance, yes, because penguins live exclusively in the southern hemisphere, not the northern, so you’d be quickly caught out.’

‘But you take my point. Why should I apologize for something that only someone looking to be insulted would find offensive? If anything, they should be apologizing to me for taking a message of support and turning it into something more sinister.’

‘They being?’

‘The Wokesters.’

‘Who are they? Are they a family?’

‘The Wokesters,’ he repeated. ‘You know, the POOTs.’

‘The POOTs? I honestly don’t know what—’

‘The Permanently Outraged of Twitter. Look, I’ve been in this game a long time and I guarantee you that this will end up being nothing more than a storm in a teacup. It’ll all be forgotten by tomorrow and someone else will be hauled over the coals for doing something just as offensive to public sensibilities.’

‘George, if I may say—’

‘You may not,’ he replied, hanging up.

Only a few minutes later, however, the hacks had started calling, asking for quotes, and he made sure to litter them with so many expletives that they were essentially unusable. And by the time he made the mistake of opening the Twitter app on his phone in the late afternoon, thousands of messages had appeared on his notifications, all from the same compassionate, #BeKind idealists letting him know that he was old, fat, stupid, ignorant, a racist, a homophobe, an anti-Semite, a transphobe, a Remoaner, a misogynist, a hypocrite, a dinosaur, a child abuser, a fascist, a Frenchman, a twat, a prick, a dementia sufferer, a bad driver, a noisy eater, a rapist, a Daily Mail reader, a Tory, an Irish Republican, a Hamas supporter and a fan of Michael Bublé.

‘Totally unfair,’ he grunted, appalled by the insults. ‘I’ve never bought a Michael Bublé record in my life.’

Later, when he got home, reporters were standing outside his front gate and, for some reason, Achilles was chatting away to them, wearing a tank-top to show off his biceps as he brought them cups of tea.

‘What on earth are you wearing?’ George asked, glaring at his son’s arms.

‘Sun’s out, guns out, Pops,’ replied Achilles with a grin. ‘And don’t worry about my style choices. The bigger question is, what have you got yourself into now?’

George had fought his way through the scrum, the smile so wide on his face that he felt as if his cheeks might crack. Still, he thought, it was good to have Achilles about the place. The boy was a complete idiot, of course, but at least he was amusing. Unintentionally.