Classism is on a par with racism and religious prejudice, and should be treated just as seriously. The report is the result of a review into the arts sector in Greater Manchester, led by the chancellor of the University of Manchester, Nazir Afzal, and Avis Gilmore, former deputy general secretary of NEU. It found there is a staggering imbalance in the arts. Without a financial safety net it has become virtually impossible to succeed, leaving the sector dominated by the middle and upper classes. For every Danny Dyer there are at least twenty privately-educated Tom Hiddleston-types, while film and TV credits are now an astonishing 50 per cent longer because of the sheer volume of double and triple barrelled names. Okay, I made that up, but the fact that it sounds plausible is cause for concern. It’s become an industry for people who can afford to perform an ironic one-man show called What Am I Doing With My Life? at a fringe theatre for a month, and bum about waiting for a big break.

Class is a delicate issue, so let me approach it with a joke: Two fish swim past one heading the other way. The fish says, “Lovely water today.” The other two carry on, then one says, “What the hell is water?” That, for me, sums it up. Class is invisible yet glaringly obvious, unspoken yet heavily accented, omnipresent and yet, you only notice it when you bump up against it.
I was blissfully unaware until my early twenties, because everyone I knew till then was more or less the same. Some lived in bigger houses, or went on fancy holidays, some had far less, but we shared the same ecosystem. Lower-middle, or what I call “normal” is the water I swim in, and the temperature is fine.

The first time I felt an icy ripple was in Oxford when I was at drama school. On a night out in town, a central casting toff who looked like a boiled ham in red jeans and a blazer, pointed at me and honked: “Do you go to Brookes?” I didn’t have time to answer before his equally plummy friend pulled him away, “Sorry, he’s taking the mick out of everyone tonight.”
It took me a minute to process. His intention was, presumably, to prod at my insecurities but as I didn’t go to Oxford nor Brookes (a perfectly decent university), I didn’t have any. Still, I have never forgotten it. Classism has a nasty sting, but making it a protected characteristic is a slippery slope. One where your dodgy Michael Caine impression could end up being a hate crime. Cor blimey.