{"id":1768,"date":"2024-04-08T15:01:28","date_gmt":"2024-04-08T15:01:28","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/260web.com\/news\/how-it-felt-to-be-targeted-in-westminster-honeytrap\/"},"modified":"2024-04-08T15:01:28","modified_gmt":"2024-04-08T15:01:28","slug":"how-it-felt-to-be-targeted-in-westminster-honeytrap","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/260web.com\/news\/how-it-felt-to-be-targeted-in-westminster-honeytrap\/","title":{"rendered":"How it felt to be targeted in Westminster honeytrap"},"content":{"rendered":"

How it felt to be targeted in Westminster honeytrap<\/p>\n

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\"Man<\/picture><\/span>Getty Images<\/span><\/div>\n<\/figure>\n<\/div>\n
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By Henry Zeffman<\/div>\n
Chief political correspondent<\/div>\n<\/div>\n<\/div>\n<\/div>\n
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In political journalism you deal with lots of different kinds of stories – stories about policies, stories about ministerial rivalries, stories about geopolitics, stories about local politics. <\/b><\/p>\n<\/div>\n<\/div>\n

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Then some stories are just plain weird, like the one that broke last week about the honeytrap targeting men in Westminster. There are still lots of unanswered questions about the case, which I hope to dig into in my job as the BBC’s chief political correspondent. <\/p>\n<\/div>\n<\/div>\n

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For that reason, I should also be upfront that I was among the men targeted. <\/p>\n<\/div>\n<\/div>\n

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It started with a WhatsApp on a Sunday morning in March. Coming from a number I did not have saved in my phone, it read: “Henry! Long time no speak – how’re you doing? Miss seeing you around Westminster x.”<\/p>\n<\/div>\n<\/div>\n

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The user’s profile picture showed a man and a woman, both probably in their 20s, having dinner. I zoomed in on the photo as much as I could but recognised neither of them. <\/p>\n<\/div>\n<\/div>\n

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“V sorry,” I replied. “Who is this?”<\/p>\n<\/div>\n<\/div>\n

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The response was instant. “Haha it’s Charlie! I used to work in Parliament and we swapped numbers after drinking one night.”<\/p>\n<\/div>\n<\/div>\n

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And then seconds later: “I’d pretend to be offended but it was a while ago x.”<\/p>\n<\/div>\n<\/div>\n

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This was pretty odd now. Yes, one way a journalist might make contacts in Westminster is to hang around the bars and pubs. But the point is to make contacts, not to fail to save their number and then forget them. And more obviously – why did Charlie keep leaving kisses at the end of their messages? <\/p>\n<\/div>\n<\/div>\n

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I put my phone down and decided to leave it but my non-response left Charlie dissatisfied. A few minutes later they came back: “Random Sunday message I know.”<\/p>\n<\/div>\n<\/div>\n

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After waiting a further six minutes for more from me, Charlie’s apparent intentions became more clear. “I’m going to guess you aren’t still single – should I bow out gracefully? Lucky girl x.”<\/p>\n<\/div>\n<\/div>\n

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From pretty odd to very odd indeed. No thanks. I blocked Charlie, meaning they could not send me more messages. But the question of what exactly the brief exchange was all about nagged at me for the rest of the day. <\/p>\n<\/div>\n<\/div>\n

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I flitted between thinking that a hostile state may have been attempting to entrap me – though it’s hard not to have that thought without feeling instantly absurd and pompous – and rustling through my mental Filofax to make absolutely sure that I hadn’t ever met this Charlie and given them the wrong end of the stick. <\/p>\n<\/div>\n<\/div>\n

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