Seeing those photographs of Angela Rayner on Hove beach in broad daylight drinking a vast glass of rosé (‘day wine’ as my lot call it) I felt a rare flash of FOMO. I met a lot of politicians when I worked as a political columnist for the Mail on Sunday in my twenties, and I’ve rarely craved their company since. But seeing Rayner on my doorstep (doing one of the things I used to most love doing before I became an invalid – boozing on Hove beach in broad daylight) I felt a pang of loss.

But then, we’d have only been half a glass down before we’d have started screeching at each other like a pair of soused-up fishwives. For though I love the fact that a genuinely working-class person stands a chance of being leader of the Labour party for the first time this century (let alone the first e

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