I don’t want to write about you. I want to write to you. To ask how you are and tell you I’m jealous of your travels, to tell you I love you so, so much and I am sorry that we have drifted apart over the past year. I regret that, I hate it, and because of it I almost feel guilty for so many tears that you’re gone because I didn’t make enough of an effort the past months when you were here.
When I first heard of you, so many years ago now, as “ChrstinaDarling”, the new darling of the right, I was wary of you. I thought you would be another popular and beautiful (and you were, you are) girl in politics and with it probably a bit of a cow. But dear lord I was wrong, on the final point alone. There are not enough words for your kindness, your heart, for how you could light up any room and for how much you cared, your passion, your light. You were just wonderful and like everyone I adored you straight away.
I remember so many times with you. How we went to “accidental Magaluf” in summer 2013, just you and me because we needed sun. I was going through things that now seem so trivial so you booked it all yourself without complaining, and without having a clue where it was we were going. The night before we flew, drinking too much wine then missing the taxi from your parents’ house, we looked at a map and realised that rather than our –allinclusive—classy, gin-filled week of reading novels, talking of freedom, anarco-capitalism and Game of Thrones in a small sunny town, we were actually staying a ten minute walk from Magaluf. Of course we went there every night, and that was one of the most brilliant weeks of my life. We bought a lilo and named him Bernard. The night before we left we actually interviewed families to make sure he went to a good new home once we had gone. We knew they thought we were mad, but we loved Bernard.
Your passion and your principles. The last time I saw you, about a week before you left, when I told you to come back safely and you laughed – of course you did – I remember you laughing with such pride at how you were such a sound advocate of gay rights because your wonderful boyfriend was kicked out of UKIP for supporting same sex marriage. You were joking then but the principle was true. You believed so strongly in freedom, genuinely with all of your massive heart, and it was and is inspiring. So many things about you were an inspiration. Tonight, as it’s Thursday, I should be writing a column for Breitbart, but I can’t because all I can think of is you, and cry, and wish so much you were here or anywhere where I could just tell you how fucking brilliant and wonderful you are. You hated Breitbart so much anyway, I hope that makes you smile.
Chrissie, you were so talented and you dreamed of being an author. I hope my inarticulate excuse of a letter to you now doesn’t offend you for being such a mess. You would have succeeded, you would have been everything you wanted to be, because of all of us you were one of the best, the brightest. Seeing you on the front page of the Daily Mail website today I don’t know whether you would laugh or cry; I can’t remember whether you shared a love for the side-bar of shame. I wish I could ask you.
I hope that every minute of your travels that you got to complete was everything you wanted. I hope you were always warm, because you so hated being cold, and that when you went you weren’t in pain or alone. You are so loved and I am so pleased you were making friends somewhere so beautiful.
I love you. I miss you. Every time I am about to fail or sacrifice principles, I will draw strength from my memories of and with you; beautiful, beautiful girl.