As soon as the new and alarmingly young mayor of London had finished speaking, people all over the United Kingdom held their breath. What on earth would Graham say in response to that? ‘Oh, lord,’ Graham Amphill muttered as he looked wearily into camera four. ‘Oh, come on, Mr Üner, not that old argument! You don’t know that people selling knock-off watches and handbags on the streets of London are working for al Qaeda for God’s sake!’ ‘No we don’t know—’ ‘Well, if you don’t know, Mr Üner, why are you spoiling it for poor Londoners who just want a fake Rolex or pair of slightly dodgy trainers to save a few quid? Isn’t this really all about trying to stamp out what we in the west consider to be slave labour in the Third World?’ ‘I—’ ‘Isn’t it all just about being judgemental and nannyish?’ ‘Graham, if you will let me speak . . .’ Haluk Üner, mayor of London, leaned forward in the big black chair the BBC had provided for him and smiled. A good-looking man of only thirty-five, Üner was the first mayor of London to be the son of immigrant parents.
