I find it hard not to feel sorry for the Duke of York. Being asked to denounce one’s friends, however unsavoury, can’t be much fun. It must be particularly galling when the politicians insisting on this act of obeisance were themselves hobnobbing with Hosni Mubarak, Zine-al-Abidine and Colonel Gaddafi until about a week ago. In the Duke’s defence, I don’t see why people in public life should be forced to hold their friends to a higher standard than the rest of us. Prince Andrew is no more responsible for the behaviour of Jeffrey Epstein than Boris Johnson is for Darius Guppy’s.
I can pinpoint the exact moment Sean Langan became my best friend. It was at William Ellis and we were in the Sixth Form Common Room about to head out for coffee. I was the new boy, having joined the school a few months earlier, and had already had my card marked as a bit of a weirdo. It didn’t help that I’d taken a year out after failing all my O-levels and, as a result, was older than everyone else.
‘Oi, Langan, watcha doin’ with that old geezer?’ said one of Sean’s friends, raising a laugh from his companions. ‘Come and play footie with uz lot.’
‘Nah,’ said Sean. ‘We’re goin’ for coffee, innit. Laters.’
Not much, I grant you, but it was enough. Sean had risked his own popularity to stand by me. One of the reasons it made such a big impression is that I was expecting him to do the opposite. As I say, I was a bit of an oddball and no one had ever stuck up for me before, certainly not someone of Sean’s stature. He was just about the most popular boy in school.
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