When I was 24, and had been in my job at the New Statesman for two months – my first in political journalism – I went to a party at Conservative conference. It was in Manchester, in 2019. I knew no one, but recognised everyone.
I had just joined a group of people I vaguely knew, when a familiar face turned around from the drinks table and began moving through the crowd in our direction: Stanley Johnson. I gave him a warm smile – because this was the Prime Minister’s father, a nice older man, and someone I recognised. He smiled back, but it became more of a leer. As he walked past, he reached out to put his hand on my back. His hand slid down, and lingered too low and for too long. I was so surprised and confused, I barely managed a grimace before he was gone. I said nothing to him.
Content from our partners
