The Closed Circle by Jonathan Coe

which, there was a decidedly quizzical note in Philip’s voice as he said: “OK, Paul, thanks for your comments. Good luck for tonight. ’Bye now.”
    He clipped the phone shut and laid it on the table in front of him, frowning deeply.
    â€œWell?” someone asked.
    Philip looked around him at the circle of attentive faces, and told his listeners, in a tone of wonderment. “He said it was good news for the industry, good news for Birmingham and good news for the whole country.”
    When Philip phoned, Paul was sitting in the dressing room of a television studio on the South Bank in central London, his cheeks pink with newly applied blusher. Longbridge was the last thing on his mind, as it happened. He was actually practising the delivery of a joke about chocolate.
    It had begun the day before, with a phone call from Malvina.
    â€œYou’re on,” she said. “This week. They’re recording tomorrow afternoon.”
    â€œOn what?” Paul asked, and she reminded him of her promise to secure him an appearance on a satirical TV show: a weekly panel game on which young comedians would sit around making scathing jokes about the news, sometimes joined by a high-profile politician. It was considered a great
coup
for an MP to be invited on to this programme, even though he (it was rarely she) would often find himself subjected to a barrage of mockery from the other guests, and could sometimes scarcely be expected to leave with his reputation intact.
    Paul could hardly believe it.
    â€œThey want me? You talked them into it? How on earth did you do that?”
    â€œI told you—I know one of the people who works there. He was my mother’s boyfriend for a while.” (Malvina’s mother had, by the sound of it, lived with a good many different partners during the last few years, so this explanation sounded plausible enough.) “Remember? A couple of weeks ago I told him you’d be available at short notice, in case someone else dropped out. You know, someone they really wanted to have on.”
    â€œThat’s fantastic,” said Paul—who, upon hearing any piece of good news, seldom noticed if there was an insult buried in it. But almost immediately afterwards he became nervous. “Hang on, though—am I expected to be funny?”
    â€œIt is a comedy programme,” Malvina pointed out. “It wouldn’t do you any harm to make a joke or two.”
    â€œI don’t really do jokes,” Paul admitted. “I mean, what other people find funny . . . I can never quite see it.”
    â€œWell, you’ll just have to develop a sense of humor,” said Malvina, pragmatically. “You’ve got about twenty-four hours. I should start working on it if I were you.”
    â€œHow am I going to do that?”
    â€œGo home tonight,” she said, “with all of the newspapers, sit down and read them, and see if you can think of anything funny to say. Try and choose a story that has something to do with you, some personal connection. Don’t be shy, go in for a little bit of self-advertisement. And try to be irreverent. That’s what it’s all about.”
    â€œBut everyone at Millbank watches that show. I think even Tony watches it. They might not like it if I’m irreverent.”
    Malvina told him not to worry. She had noticed, by now, that humour was not Paul’s strong point. And yet his tendency to take everything seriously was one of the very things that most endeared him to her. It made him so easy to tease.
    Back at the flat, Paul spent all evening reading through the newspapers and flicking through the satellite channels from one news station to another. There wasn’t much that caught his eye. The Northern Ireland secretary, Peter Mandelson, had announced that 500 troops were to be called back to the mainland, and British Aerospace had been given a £530 million grant to develop a European