Some weeks ago, I found myself in the faintly uncanny position of experiencing a twinge of sympathy for Matt Hancock. OK, the man was a chancer of limited administrative competence who had a record of doing the most embarrassing thing possible at every turn, not least handing his entire WhatsApp history to the notorious Isabel Oakeshott and expecting her not to make hay. On the other hand, though, the entire country was now poring over his entire WhatsApp history, and who among us could honestly have expected to emerge unscathed from that? “If someone leaked my message history,” one friend said, “I would quite simply die.”
Once upon a time, not so long ago, there were text messages and Facebook groups and internet forums and DM chats. Now, to a greater or lesser extent, WhatsApp has replaced the lot. I talk to my partner there. I pitch to my editors there. One minute I’m using it to find out what the other residents of my building are furious about this week; the next, to organise dinner with some friends. It’s the app that ate everything.
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