‘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.’

‘Oh my God, that’s such a transphobic comment!’ roared someone else.

‘But it’s not! It’s simply a statement of fact. Ethnic cleansing has nothing to do with transgender people. You might as well connect homophobia to a fear of horses!’

‘Why you think the gay men hate the horses?’ asked the Trinidadian woman, hands firmly on hips.

‘The Doctor has always been played by a man and he should still be played by a man!’ shouted someone else over the throng. ‘It’s political correctness gone mad!’

‘Now, I take exception to that,’ said George, turning around. ‘Jodie Whittaker is a very fine actress who, in my opinion, has embodied the role with élan and—’

An egg flew in his direction, hitting his shoulder, and he stared at it as it fell to the ground before breaking open. It appeared to be hard-boiled, which seemed to defeat the purpose of the exercise. But a moment later, another soared through the air, a fresh one this time, and smashed against his shirt, just to the left of his tie.

‘Oh, really, this is too much,’ shouted George. ‘I’m not some sort of monster, you know. I’m a beloved BBC personality! You’ve got it wrong, all of you.’

Now, two tomatoes came his way, along with an onion, but before he could assemble the raw ingredients for a tasty omelette, Samir had taken him by the arm and dragged him towards the revolving doors and they made their way inside, away from the rabble, while George examined the damage the protestors had done to his suit.