guest post: men in politics can’t be trusted

why do I still find them sexy?

A pair of blue eyes haunt me. Staring through a round face with plump cheeks, full of secrets, sitting atop a man whose podgy frame would surely not pass the Millennial dating app test, at paltry 5’8”.

I’m talking about Harold Wilson, the bygone Labour leader and two-time Prime Minister and, as of last week, Westminster’s latest extra-marital shagger. Sex scandals come in waves this side of the Atlantic and lately it’s been a tsunami of unsolicited political dick pics in the halls of Pestminster. Male MPs are getting honeytrapped like GBNews presenters in a pro-Palestine march. While Wilson remains unrivalled in leadership terms, the living lotharios on the green benches are giving him a run for his money. It’s been hilarious for the press, but for me it’s been heartbreaking.

I was born and raised in Greece then later moved to the UK to study law. After becoming a member of the Labour Party, I still had just a rudimentary knowledge Wilson’s political reputation. Like many young political staffers, I developed a fondness for men who were clever and ugly by Hollywood standards. The married ones I never cared for (I’m not a complete idiot) but the younger, unencumbered cohort seemed promising. It was during my time as a Parliamentary bag carrier at Porticullis House that my disillusionment began, but the past few weeks has cemented it. It’s not just the soiling of Wilson legacy that pains me, it’s every political shagger, from Johnson to Hancock to Clinton.

I am a political romantic. I started my career as an organiser on the Bernie Sanders campaign, and when Jeremy Corbyn became leader of the Labour Party, and my older, British fellow party members were pre-emptively mourning our election losses, I looked at them wide-eyed and confused. Why the cynicism? Who hurt you and stopped you believing in magic? If you are an idealistic political animal like me, you want to believe in the myth of a great leader who is disciplined and morally upstanding. A man who is loyal not just to his country but also to his wife and kids. Finding out an admirable political figure is a cheater is like finding your dad’s porn stash. 

Yes, political flesh is as weak as the civilian variety, but I still can’t help fancying it. In this way I sympathise with Margaret Thatcher. Not her politics, of course, but her penchant for men of intellect and writing skills, sharp clothes and no beard. She didn’t act on her predilections though, did she? Women with a political mission so rarely do. Where is the female Bill Clinton? The Lady Boris?Now, that’s a challenge I hope I’ll never rise to.

Why can’t men behave? I am not even talking about sexual harassment and groping, just garden variety romantic misbehaviour. I was at a Westminster party recently and a handsome boy journo was joyfully gossiping about a soft-spoken front bench heavyweight who lured a woman away from her marriage only to unceremoniously dump her once she had made the trip of no return. The boy journo had a gleeful grin on his face as he was narrating this tale of horrifying betrayal. I was experiencing second-hand heartbreak. I don’t personally know that politician, but if his debating performance is anything to go by, I imagine that mouth of his can do a lot of damage. 

Who amongst us hasn’t fallen into the trap of swooning over the charming and the powerful? These Westminster 10s, Soho House 5s, these Rasputins, whose appeal might scarcely stir a glance amidst the models of Los Angeles or the geek moguls of San Francisco. Every field has its share of fabulists, but politics has the most dedicated ones because men in politics usually don’t have other cards to play, like looks or money. Instead they make up for it with overdeveloped language skills. 

I’m not complaining; Westminster is far away from home, and I didn’t land here by accident. I imagine other women feel similarly, and hence, men of modest mating value get to punch above their weight. If I had a pound for every time a man in Westminster has made me feel special only to hear him being referred to as a ‘massive shagger’ over pints, I would have enough dosh to sink my feelings. I am not special, then? Fine. 

If the Iron Lady couldn’t resist the gift of the gab, what hope is there for our generation of millennial female politicos? We have the personal boundaries of a cell undergoing osmosis and date men with as much a sense of duty as an amoeba. 

I used to scoff at the Girl Boss feminist argument that if women were in charge, all our problems would be solved. Who do you think raised the men? However, as I approach my 30^th birthday, the age when famously the brain fully develops, and the female body begins its emancipation from the suckles of men’s relentless lechery, I am beginning to think the bossy girls were right.

As a fresh-off-the-boat immigrant speechwriter, I poured much of my romantic energy into trying to attract the attention of the ugly clever men who overshadowed me professionally, but now the scales have fallen from my eyes. These guys can’t be trusted, why would I want one? Even the lionised dead ones can’t help themselves. We need to put them out of their misery and out of their jobs. Let’s throw the kitchen sink at getting more idealistic young women up that greasy totem pole.

Stella Tsantekidou

is a London-based political campaigner and commentator. She also writes the Human Carbohydrate.