‘I’m told you’re the one to watch,’ Julian Assange says when I introduce myself in the Green Room. ‘Likewise,’ I reply. We’re backstage at Kensington Town Hall on a sunny Saturday afternoon to debate the ethics of whistleblowing. The seats sold out in minutes and the audience, almost all young, female or both, are clearly here for him. One of my colleagues tries conversation. Government comes up. ‘Companies are the new government,’ Assange says. He expands on his theme. The room is becoming blurry. I’m zoning out. It’s not just the sixth-form politics but the sheer anti-charisma of the man. I start to worry about the debate. What will I do if he numbs my brain on stage? Assange’s conversation is aural Rohypnol.
Not exactly jet-lagged, I arrive jet-overdosed. Thursday and Friday I’m in Berlin at a conference with a real hero, the former Soviet dissident Nathan Sharansky. On the Sunday I have to go to the US, coming back via Holland.
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