Somewhere at the bottom of the Fleet Street food chain is the hapless junior reporter known as the ‘milk bottle’. So-called because most of their time is spent hanging around on doorsteps, seeking comment from people who almost never want to talk.
It is one of journalism’s lower art forms, requiring the patience of a stalker and the persistence of a chugger – and if I sound sniffy, that’s because I put in plenty time as a ‘milk-bottle’ myself in my early career in the 1990s.
The nearest I ever got an interview was Liam Gallagher telling me to fuck off. Several minor royals called the police. Someone in Tessa Jowell’s house – they never did answer the door – called Downing Street. A few threw punches.
It was with a certain weariness, therefore, that during one late shift in 1997, I was sent to doorstep Ann Widdecombe at her flat in Kennington, south London. It was at the height of her falling out with former Home Secretary Michael Howard, a few days after she’d said there was ‘something of the night’ about him. And I feared she’d think there was something of the night about me, given that I turned up on her door after dark.
This, it should be remembered, was not the cuddly Widdecombe of the Celebrity Big Brother and Strictly years, but the old-school Widdecombe – the stern, spinsterly professional politician, not known for suffering fools easily. Especially fools who banged on her door late at night asking questions.
When I knocked, there was no reply. But that’s no excuse for when you’re on ‘milk bottle’ duty. You hang about, sentry-like, until the quarry shows. Which she duly did, about 9 p.m, no doubt having had a long day, and not in the mood for chat.
‘Er, do you have any further comment about Mr Howard, Ms Widdecombe…?’ I blurted nervously (this wasn’t someone who looked like she wanted to be called ‘Ann’).
She stared at me. Then – just as I was expecting a hand-bagging, or a call to Kennington Police Station – she dropped another bombshell.
‘You must be cold after all that standing around,’ she said. ‘I expect you need a drink. Not got much I’m afraid, but there’s gin and Scotch.’
With that, we headed upstairs to her flat, where she poured tumblers of Scotch for both of us. Not a measly singles either, but several fingers each. She then spared me a generous half an hour for an interview, during which my glass was refilled at least once, and she was charm itself.
To be honest, it wasn’t much of an exclusive. Partly because she didn’t say much that she hadn’t already said to the Sunday Times. And partly because the ‘milk bottle’ ended up so full of Scotch that he could barely read his shorthand afterwards.
But that’s not really the point of this story. The point is to show that a woman widely portrayed back then as a fierce old battleaxe could be pleasant and hospitable – and had time for ‘little people’. You can judge folk a lot by how they act towards those they can get away with treating badly. And take it from me, people can get away with treating milk bottles very badly indeed.
From then on, I had a soft spot for Widdecombe. Her hard-right, string-em-up politics may not have been for everyone. But at a time when ‘Blair’s Babes’ were on the rise, she was a breath of whisky-tinged fresh air, someone who didn’t rely on a pager to be told what to be told ‘what the line’ was, and who remained resolutely unfashionable in both opinions and appearance. When the Daily Mirror cruelly called her ‘Doris Karloff’, for example, she took it in her stride, answering her phone saying: ‘Hello, Doris here’.
Quite why she let me in that night, I will never quite know. Maybe she wanted a bit more coverage of her feud with Howard – although someone in her position would have had political editors and columnists on speed-dial. Maybe she was lonely and wanted some company for a drink. Or maybe, having been on the receiving of a lot of flak herself over the years, she had a bit of sympathy for a hapless milk bottle like me. Indeed, having read the reports that a 26-year-old man has been arrested for her murder, I can’t help wondering he might be some other waif and stray she took pity on.
Anyway, last night I poured another fat glass of Scotch, and drank to her memory.
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