Twitter inquisition

A friend of mine at university had a rule: he didn’t want anything to appear online that might ruin a future political career. On nights out, when photos were being taken, he’d quietly move out of the picture. While we were all wittering away to each other on social media, he kept schtum. Strange, I remember thinking. Why so paranoid?

I thought of my friend when Toby Young started making headlines. After Toby was appointed one of the 14 non-executive members of the Office for Students, he discovered to his cost that his past — preserved as it is online — could be dredged up by those who wanted to sabotage his advancement. The campaign against him worked. The Twitter-storm gathered such strength that it sucked in newspapers and politicians. His old tweets ended up being debated in parliament. The Prime Minister was asked about sentences from articles Toby had written 17 years ago. After eight days of outrage, he resigned.

Just two weeks ago, the fate of Toby Young would have been of interest to Spectator readers, possibly a few free school enthusiasts, but not a great many others. Yet his resignation from an advisory post to an obscure quango led the BBC morning news — ahead of the cabinet reshuffle. It’s baffling: why is everyone, seemingly, talking about a journalist having to leave a minor government body that nobody had heard of?

The answer is that Toby has become just the latest — and perhaps the highest-profile — target of a new phenomenon: the digital inquisition. It is something that anyone wanting to enter public life can — and should — expect. As my university friend knew, if you happen to be ambitious in the internet age, you must be very careful about everything you say or do online.