Tim Westwood's bright red van is parked outside Radio 1. I know this because Tim Westwood's bright red van has his name painted on it in big white letters. Inside, a courier turns to a security guard. "What the hell is that ?" Another man walks in. "Is that Tim Westwood's bloody van outside?"
Next comes the veteran DJ Simon Mayo. "I see Tim Westwood's here." The first guy shakes his head. "I'll tell you what that's about, Simon. M-O-N-E-Y."
"And the flava," Mayo deadpans. "Don't forget the flava."
As if. Because Tim Westwood has flava to burn. Two decades after making his debut as a pirate DJ, he is doing what he loves, playing the the latest in US rap. To the half million British fans who listen to his weekend shows on Radio 1, he is, quite simply, Westwood: the face of hip-hop.
The white face of hip-hop. Straight outta Lowestoft, son of Bill, the late Bishop of Peterborough. No, make that the white, faintly wrinkled face of hip-hop, complete with transatlantic intonation and studied lexicon of mad skills and hot goddamn beats. Better yet, the white, faintly wrinkled, public-school-educated face of hip-hop, in his bright red van with his name painted on the side.
There. You've had the cheap shots. It's not rocket science. While he may be Westwood to his fans, to detractors he's merely the real-life Ali G, a gibberish-spouting embarrassment, guilty of being entirely the wrong colour and class for his chosen profession. To the BBC, however, he is a godsend, a proven draw for otherwise indifferent "urban" (read black) listeners. Which is why, alongside Radio 1 publicist Paul, he is here in spotless camouflage, talking up his employer's plans for a new "urban" digital radio station.
"I believe in public service, man," he declares. "I believe in serving the audience that supports you."
An admirably Reithian sentiment. Only I feel obliged to mention that, by fronting a project designed for, to quote the Radio 1 blurb, a black audience under 24, he (neither black, nor under 24) is playing into his critics' hands. He bristles, just slightly.
"I'm here as a DJ, man. And I really feel that I can make a strong and positive contribution to the running of the station."
He sounds as if he is at a job interview, and that is before he gives an exhaustive rundown of his CV ("that's a lot of experience, man"). Then he catches my eye. "So ... what would these criticisms be, man?"
There is no chance to reply before Paul reminds me that the Radio 1 Rap Show is the BBC's best-performing programme with a young black audience. "Right," Westwood nods emphatically. "And I think I can offer experience on-air, in production, and also in management."
Great. After all, no one would question his commitment. When he talks hip-hop, it's almost touching. For real. "Come on, man. There's a multimillion dollar industry comin' outta hip-hop, man, outta people who would have had no choice but be sellin' drugs on the corner, man. Come on, man. That's a revolution, man. Respect it and be part of it, man."
Except that, despite the enthusiasm, he seems wary. Defensive. Then again, you'd be touchy if you'd been shot at point-blank range at a set of south London traffic lights, as he was last July when two men fired repeatedly through his Range Rover window. The first bullet just missed his spine. Despite various conspiracy theories, no charges were brought. "The police got a couple of people," he shrugs. "Lack of evidence let 'em go. Just one of those things, man."
No, to Westwood, the bitterest legacy of the shooting was his sniggering appropriation by the media. "I been around forever, workin' for the hip-hop community, but before I got blasted, the press wasn't bothered, man. Then everyone wanted to know me."
And to make a joke of him. Unkind voices even suggested that, in terms of credibility, getting shot was the best move of his career. So why does he think he provokes such hostility? "I don't, man. I get tremendous love out there, man. Tremendous love."
But not from the media. "What, do you hate me?"
No, I say. I don't hate him at all.
"Then some of the media's feelin' me, man ... I don't know, man, some cats don't understand hip-hop, man. That's their issue, man."
He's getting pricklier by the minute. Perhaps, like dogs smelling fear, the press have latched on to his reluctance to discuss his background. Take him at his word, and you would think he had come out of the womb spinning mad flavas.
"So? I'm a DJ, man. Talk to me about music, man. That's who I am, man. I'm not a "- he spits the word - "personality."
But he has got a van outside with his name on it in 3ft-high letters. He hesitates. "That's just a hot truck, man. Come on man. That's a lot of flava, man. A lot of flava. Paul? Are you feelin' me, Paul?"
Paul seems ambivalent. Anyway, that doesn't explain why he won't acknowledge his early life. "OK, man. What d'you want to know, man?"
Regrettably, I ask about his first childhood memory. Five minutes later, he's still fuming. "Childhood memory? How is that relevant to hip-hop, man? Damn, man. My first childhood memory isn't relevant, man. Come on, man. Ask me another."
OK. "How old are you?"
There is a very long silence. It seems a fair point. After the shooting, his age was given as everything from 30 to 42. "So, how old are you?"
"I'm 27."
"Tim, you're not. How old are you?" "I just told you my age, man. My age, right ... I'm going to tell you about my age. I don't want to be saying my age, man. My age, right ... it depends what paper you read. HAHAHA!"
I tell him I'm not trying to be funny.
"I am!"
"How old are you?"
"How old am I? Depends what newspaper you read, man."
"No, how old are you?"
"Yeah, and my answer, for the third time, is: it depends what newspaper you read, man. Yeah, man."
He won't look me in the eye. Why won't he tell me how old he is? "Because I have. Come on, man. You're makin' issues at this precise moment."
I've heard blue-rinsed old ladies being less evasive. "I'm 27, man. I'm like Cliff Richard. Put that down. HAHAHA!"
He stares at his feet. I tell him I have no problem with him, and that knowing someone's age, even approximately, helps you get a better picture of that person.
No response. How old was he when he got into hip-hop? "Hmm ..." What year was it? "Probably ... '79. And I came out DJ-ing around '82."
When he was nine? "I don't know, man. I'll have to work it out. Next question."
"Why won't you tell me how old you are?"
"It's not an issue, man. Paul, do I know how old you are?" Paul coughs.
"Come on, man. Let's move on."
Does he think it's a strange question? "No ... Come on, man, I'm in showbusiness, man. Not showbusiness, but ... the music, um ... showbusiness. Showbusiness, man. Come on, man. You can understand that." I tell him I could understand it if he was 75. "I ain't 75, brother."
It's hopeless. I ask more questions but he just keeps taking offence.
"So, hip-hop's become your life?" "Yeah? And? What's your life, man?"
When I tell him we're done, he exhales, long and hard, before bemoaning at some length those who "be hatin' on me." Eventually, we - me, him, and Paul - leave.
Outside, a baffled man in Hare Krishna garb stares at the bright red van. I shake Westwood's hand, looking at a pleasant but hugely over-sensitive guy in early middle age. He looks at me as if I'm the devil. Then he heads toward the van. The last time I see him, he and the Krishna devotee are knocking fists.
"Yo, man, yo. Wha' appenin', man? Yo, man ... whassup ?"