“Sam! You’re in charge on the ground!” There was no pretence at hissing now. “Get the barrier lifted!”

I gave Jo back her radio and set off for the barrier, which was a distance of perhaps fifty metres. For a moment I tried to maintain my dignity but trying to walk at running pace looks even more panicky than running, so I ran. At the barrier I could see that the guard was shaken but determined. For all he knew this could be a test of his guarding abilities. We have all seen films where the guard nods the general through and then the general turns on the guard and bollocks him for not demanding to see a pass. The gate guard did not wish to make that mistake. All in all he had clearly decided that whether it was a hoax or not the safest policy for him was to cling to the rules like a paranoid limpet.

“He hasn’t got a pass. His name’s not on the list and you haven’t got a programme number. The rules are very clear.”

I wondered how the PM was taking all this. It was impossible to say since, as I have said, the rear windows of the Daimler were darkened. To see him I would have had to put my head through the driver’s window, which would probably have resulted in my being shot. The shadowy nature of the PM’s countenance was of course a contributory factor to the gate guard’s doubts. I thought about asking whether the Premier would mind stepping out for a moment and showing himself, but I did not have the nerve.

“Right,” I said, and grabbing the gate I attempted to lift it by brute force. This was pointless, of course. I heaved and I heaved and the guard threatened to call the police, of whom there were four in evidence. I think if I had bent the barrier backwards it might have snapped but supposing it had boinged back and killed someone? A flying splinter might blind the PM!

I had to think straight. Force was not the answer. I let go of the gate and strode back to the guard.

“Ring the switchboard,” I said. “Ask them to ring Livin’ Large and get them to give you a programme number.”

There was an agonizing wait for the switchboard to respond. It was a Saturday, after all, and TV Centre is always a bit dead on a Saturday. Eventually the guard got through, but only as far as the switchboard, who refused to put him through to Livin’ Large.

“They’re live on air at the moment,” the guard said, “and not taking calls in the control box.”

“I know they’re live on air, that’s the whole…”

What could I do? I know these people, people at gates, people on doors, people with lists. They are immovable. They cannot be reasoned with. Over the years they have stopped me going into clubs, pubs, departure lounges, the wrong entrance at cricket grounds and, most days, my own place of work. The mountain would have to go to Mohammed.

I set off to run back to the studio to get the programme number. As I sprinted up the carpark turning circle and back into the studio complex I could feel the eyes of every single superior I had upon me. They burned into my back as I ran past the famous Ariel Fountain and into the Centre. Amazingly, I did not instantly get lost and rush into a drama studio, ruining a take, like I normally do. I pushed my way straight into Livin’ Large, bursting in on the show while a boy band (called Boy Band) were singing a song about being in love (called “Bein’ In Love”). I grabbed a camera script from a floor manager, noted down the programme number and charged back out towards the gates.

As I emerged from the building clutching the precious number I could see that the Daimler had been allowed through. The police, it seems, had taken charge and threatened the gate guard with immediate arrest if he did not lift his barrier and now the Prime Minister was on the red carpet being profusely apologized to by the Chairman of the Board of Governors and the Director General.

The PM laughed, he smiled, he said that these things happened and that we were not to worry about it at all. Had it not been for the flashing eyes and gritted teeth I might almost have imagined that he meant it.

As they bustled the great man off for make-up I tried to make a face at Nigel as if to say, “Phew, got away with that, didn’t we?” He would not even look at me.

Back in the studio Tazz was telling the cameras that the most mega honour in television history was about to be visited upon the kidz of Livin’ Large, and that the Prim-o Minister-o, the Main Man UK, was already in the house!

There was cheering, there was shouting, the Livin’ Large goblin puppets jumped up and down in front of the camera, Tazz beamed, the male presenter (whose name I can never remember) grinned, the floor managers tried to look all serious and then the great moment was upon us, the PM was about to go on. Most of the bigwigs were watching the show in a hospitality suite on the sixth floor, but I was in the control box along with Nigel and the Head of Television.

“Terrible fucking cock-up at the gate, Nigel,” said the Head of Television.

“Heads will roll,” said Nigel.

“Yes, they certainly will, I’ll make sure of that,” I said quickly, but I knew that Nigel had meant my head.

Then the bank of TV monitors which faced us over the heads of the vision mixers, PAs, directors, etc, suddenly lit up with the beaming countenance of the Prime Minister. He looked great. The kids cheered. I felt that the worst of the day was behind us.

Tazz, bless her, lobbed him the first ball beautifully.

“Is it true, Prime Minister, that you play the electric guitar?”

“Perfect!” shouted Nigel in the box. “Well done, Tazz.”

Nigel was clearly attempting to assume credit for the planting of this question, which had actually been my work. I wasn’t having it.

“Yes, good girl, that’s exactly what I told her to ask,” I said pointedly.

The PM smiled broadly. He raised his eyebrows in a self-deprecating shrug as if to say that he couldn’t imagine how Tazz had heard about that.

“Look,” he said. “You know a lot of kids these days think that politicians are fuddy and they’re duddy but it’s just not true. Yes, I do play the electric guitar and I love to surf the Internet. I’m just a regular bloke who likes popmusic, comedy with proper rude bits in it and wearing fashionable trousers. Just like you, Jazz.”

We all gulped slightly at this but Tazz quite rightly let it go and threw the floor open to the assembled children. It went wonderfully. The Prime Minister was frank, open and honest. Yes, he had a pet as a child, a hamster called Pawpaw. His favourite meal was egg and chips, but there must be proper ketchup. He loved soccer with a passion and he thought that Britain could again be great at it. He mentioned again how much he liked popmusic and that he played the electric guitar.

We could see that the PM was enjoying himself. Jo Winston had joined us in the box and she was beaming. The incident at the gate seemed to be forgotten. It was beginning to look like we’d got away with it.

Then my niece Kylie asked a question.

“Mr Prime Minister. With more young people than ever living rough on the streets, with your government cutting benefits to young people more than ever before, with class sizes at record levels and with children’s hospitals being forced to close, don’t you think that it’s an act of disgusting cynicism to come on here and pretend that you care at all about what really matters to young people?”

Oh my raving giddily diddily fuck.

The PM was absolutely not ready for it. He was stopped dead. At any other time he could easily have fielded an attack like Kylie’s. He would have told her that they were putting in more money than the other lot. That they were tackling a culture of dependency. That they were targeting benefit where it was really needed. I’d heard him do it any number of times in interviews and he always convinced me. But on this occasion he just wasn’t ready.