What is crisis PR? Why I work with controversial people, and why the truth still matters

People misunderstand my work quite a lot. When I say I work in crisis PR, some people assume I help terrible people get away with things. Somebody does something awful, calls a publicist and gets a statement designed to make everyone forget. I understand where that idea comes from. Some public apologies are so obviously evasive that you wonder why anyone bothered.

I've also had people in my own life judge me based on who they assume I work with. Not someone they know I represent, or anything they know I've done. Just an idea of the sort of person who might need someone like me. That's quite ironic, given how much of my job involves dealing with the consequences of people making assumptions.

I'm comfortable talking to people I disagree with, and helping an unpopular person correct something that's factually wrong. Neither means I approve of everything they've ever said or done. Apparently that distinction needs explaining more than I expected.

What does crisis PR actually involve?

Crisis PR means helping people and organisations deal with situations that could damage their reputation or the trust people have in them. What that looks like depends entirely on the client. One person needs help responding to a journalist. Another needs to explain something to their staff. Someone else has already been through the worst of it, but what people find about them online still tells an incomplete or inaccurate story.

I handle press enquiries, write and review statements, work alongside lawyers and help clients decide what to say, to whom and when. I also do PR and media training, including preparation for live interviews. We work through likely questions, difficult follow-ups and how to correct a wrong assumption without sounding defensive. It's easy to give a sensible answer in your kitchen. It feels very different with an earpiece in, a camera on you and someone challenging you on live television.

I want clients to understand what they're saying and be able to stand behind it, rather than memorise three sentences and repeat them whatever the question. That includes recognising when they don't know enough to answer. Preparation can be practical too. I've even been clothes shopping for clients who were too anxious to leave the house but needed something to wear for an interview. When someone is overwhelmed, sorting out one small thing can make the day feel more manageable.

A lot of the job involves sitting with someone, at my home, theirs or somewhere private, while they fall apart. People see the interview or the statement. They don't see the hours beforehand, when someone is crying, scared to look at their phone or convinced their life will never be normal again. It's emotionally heavy work, and some conversations stay with me long after the working day ends.

Clients can feel incredibly isolated. When it feels like the whole world hates you, you start wondering who you can talk to and whether they've already made up their mind. Sometimes people are just grateful that someone is being kind and willing to listen. That doesn't stop me asking difficult questions, but I'm aware the person in front of me may be having the worst week of their life. How I treat them matters.

The work often carries on after things have calmed down. I work on search engine optimisation (SEO), Google rankings and how clients are described by AI tools. That last part is often called generative engine optimisation, or GEO: looking at what information exists about someone and which sources an AI-generated answer might draw on.

Someone might have been acquitted, had an allegation withdrawn, or shown that a particular claim was false. Those are different outcomes, and the wording matters. But the original accusation can still be far easier to find than what happened next. I work on that through corrections, updates and making accurate information easier to find. I can't tell Google to rearrange its results or control what every AI tool says, but I can challenge inaccuracies and help make the real outcome clearer.

So the work varies enormously. Sometimes there's a deadline in an hour, sometimes it's months of work, and sometimes my honest advice is: I don't think you should respond to this. It depends on the person, the facts and what will actually help.

Most of my clients never expected any of this

Controversial clients are only a small part of my work. I also work with people I like and agree with, who suddenly find themselves publicly judged over a misunderstanding, a badly worded comment or a situation far more complicated than the version being shared.

I work with businesses whose staff are frightened for their jobs because something has blown up around them. Sometimes the reaction is completely out of proportion. The person answering the angry emails may have had nothing to do with the original decision, but they're dealing with the fallout all day.

That's why I find parts of cancel culture completely ridiculous. Criticism matters, and people and businesses should be questioned. But when the aim becomes making sure someone never works again, or hoping a whole company collapses over one incident, we've gone well beyond asking anyone to do better.

Our priorities can be bizarre too. There are serious abuse cases in the news that raise real questions about power and accountability, and yet a celebrity's awkward remark can get just as much energy, as if it's the most pressing issue in the world. We can care about more than one thing, obviously. But the amount of attention something gets doesn't always match how serious it is.

I want there to be room for an explanation, a correction and, where someone has done something wrong, real change. Otherwise, what are we actually asking them to do?

Having millions of followers doesn't mean you know what to say

Another part of media training comes up more and more: the pressure on public figures to speak about politics and world events. People want someone they admire to acknowledge something important, and I understand that. But there's a difference between asking someone to care and expecting them to explain a subject they barely understand to millions of people.

I work with clients who have more than 30 million followers. To put that in perspective, The O2 arena holds up to 20,000 people. Would you feel comfortable standing in the middle of it, explaining your position on a complicated political issue and taking questions? Now imagine 1,500 full O2 arenas. Not every follower will see a post, obviously, but it gives you an idea of the scale. It's a big responsibility to put your name to an explanation that people may trust simply because they trust you.

Some clients are singers, actors or entertainers who ask me, quite honestly, why anyone wants their opinion on something they know very little about. We talk it through, and sometimes a few basic questions show they're right to hesitate. That doesn't make them stupid. They've built a career doing something else. But when someone can't explain the position they're being pressured to post, and I know how many people follow them, I'm worried about what we're asking them to do.

Keeping up with the news is part of my job. I have my own views and, as anyone who knows me privately will confirm, I'm quite opinionated. I also work with people who won't agree with all of them, which is fine. My views don't become theirs just because I'm the one writing the statement.

I could write a polished political response, send it over and have someone nod along because it sounds convincing. But if they don't understand the argument, I've given them words they can't really stand behind. What happens when an interviewer asks a follow-up? Or someone stops them in the street and asks why they believe what they posted? Suddenly they're struggling to explain a position they shared with millions of people with total confidence.

And it feels wrong. Millions of people think they're reading their favourite singer's considered views on something incredibly important, and it's actually Lauren Beeching in London, probably ordering a Deliveroo as they read it. They're trusting that person's judgement, and I've quietly swapped in my own. I don't think that's a responsible use of their influence or mine.

Of course I'll help someone tidy up their wording or help write something powerful. That's part of my job. But I need to hear what they actually think, see that they understand the points they're making and know they appreciate the responsibility of sharing them with that many people. They don't need to write every sentence themselves. They do need to understand and mean what goes out under their name.

You don't need a politics degree to have an opinion, care about suffering or talk about your own experience. Someone can express concern without pretending to have all the answers. They can also take time to learn, ask questions and check a source before sharing it. What worries me is the idea that instant public certainty proves someone cares, and hesitation means they don't.

If a client wants to speak, we talk through what they actually believe, what they understand and which claims they can back up. I explain the possible consequences of speaking out and of staying quiet, including how either might come across to their audience. Neither is automatically right, and I want them to understand what they're choosing rather than just react to pressure.

We might end up with a considered statement, a simpler expression of concern or a decision to learn more before saying anything. What matters is that they understand and mean what they put their name to.

Personally, I think Dolly Parton had the right idea. She's spent decades keeping her politics to herself, and nobody doubts she cares about people.

"How can you work with someone like that?"

For me, the first question is what they're asking me to do. Helping someone correct a false claim is something I'm comfortable with, even if I don't like them. Helping them publish a false claim about somebody else is something I won't do. A person's name alone doesn't tell you which of those jobs I've been asked to take on.

I'm also comfortable working with people whose opinions differ from mine. I quite enjoy those conversations. Growing up, I often had no idea who people voted for. You knew them as people, and disagreeing wasn't necessarily a reason to stop getting on. I still feel that way. Sometimes someone I disagree with makes a point I hadn't thought of, and I change my mind about that particular thing. I don't see how I'd learn much if I only listened to people who already agreed with me.

But disagreeing with someone's politics is different from watching them behave in a way I think is harmful. I've worked with people who were lovely to me privately, then said or did things publicly that I found genuinely upsetting. It really messes with your head, especially when you've spent hours discussing exactly why that behaviour is a problem. You can enjoy someone's company and still be disappointed by what they do.

The important thing is not to let your own relationship become an excuse for them. "They've always been lovely to me" doesn't answer a complaint about how they've treated someone else. Knowing their family, understanding their worries or finding them funny doesn't make that complaint less valid. If I'm going to give useful advice, I need to remember that.

There's also a practical reason I'm willing to work with some controversial people: they may actually listen when I challenge them. Refusing to represent someone doesn't stop them posting. They can still hand their account to a friend, a fan or someone who's thrilled to be working with them and reluctant to disagree. I'm not saying I'm the only person who could help, or that every client should be accepted. But sometimes staying involved means there's someone in the room asking, "What evidence have you got for that?" before an accusation reaches millions of people.

I know I've stopped harmful statements and unsupported claims from being published by several clients. I've explained why something was unfair, who it could hurt and why being angry didn't make it acceptable. Sometimes they've listened and changed their response completely. I'm proud of that. The difficulty is that nobody sees a post that never went out, and I can't share confidential conversations to show how the decision was made.

If people knew everyone I'd worked with, I'm sure some would think, what a fucking arsehole. They'd recognise a name and assume I'd helped that person do the very thing they dislike them for. In some cases, I'd spent my time trying to stop it. That doesn't put my work beyond criticism, but it does mean a name alone tells you very little about what I actually did.

I don't regret working with someone just because they were controversial. I care about what I helped them do, what I challenged and whether my advice made a difference. If someone expects me to agree with them regardless of the facts, we won't have a workable relationship. If they're prepared to listen, those conversations can be really valuable.

Accuracy shouldn't depend on whether you like someone

I've worked with some people I personally thought were truly terrible. I wasn't secretly won over by their charm. There was no heartwarming moment halfway through. But even then, I've looked at reporting about them and found details that were wrong. Frankly, if someone has given you that much material, there's no need to start improvising.

I believe strongly that mainstream news organisations should report the facts, whoever they're writing about. If someone's behaviour deserves scrutiny, report what they actually did. An inaccurate detail damages the credibility of the reporting and gives them something legitimate to challenge.

Legal proceedings add another layer. I regularly sit in court for clients, and you have to pay close attention to who is speaking, what they're referring to and whether something is an allegation, an argument or a finding. A barrister putting a suggestion to a witness isn't the same as the witness agreeing with it, and neither is the same as a judge deciding it's true. Those differences can disappear quickly in a summary.

Even a word-for-word transcript can be misleading if a passage is lifted out of the wider exchange. Some material may be private, unavailable or covered by reporting restrictions. Reporters are also working under pressure, sometimes covering an unfamiliar case or relying on someone else's notes. An error can start with a misheard answer or a misunderstanding of what a hearing was actually deciding. That doesn't make the journalist malicious, but it does make checking important.

This work gets very specific. What does the article say happened? What was actually said or decided? What does the record show? Where needed, I work with the client's lawyers to check the legal position and what can be shared, then explain the error to the journalist. Pointing to an exact mistake, with supporting material, gives the publication something it can properly assess.

Helping with a correction isn't me trying to make a terrible person look lovely. If accurate information changes how a reader sees an allegation, that's what should happen. Readers deserve accuracy too. They're entitled to form opinions from reliable information, not whichever version gets the most satisfying reaction. If the facts are damning, they can do the work on their own.

The press can get things wrong. So can my clients.

I work with journalists regularly, both representing clients and giving commentary myself. I also co-host BBC Radio 4's When It Hits the Fan. I respect reporters who ask difficult questions and take the time to establish what happened. Challenging an inaccurate detail and supporting proper scrutiny go hand in hand.

I've also had clients lie to me, and it happens quite often in first conversations with potential clients. Sometimes it's an outright lie. Sometimes they leave out the part that would make me ask different questions. As someone talks, I'm building a timeline in my head: what happened first, who knew what, what they did next and whether the explanation fits. If something doesn't add up, I come back to it. Being sympathetic doesn't mean I've stopped paying attention.

That's why I ask for the full exchange rather than one screenshot, or the original document rather than someone's summary of it. A gap isn't automatically a lie. People under stress can be muddled, embarrassed or simply wrong. But I need to understand it before I repeat their version to a journalist. I'm putting my own credibility behind what I say.

For publications regulated by IPSO, the Editors' Code of Practice sets standards for accuracy, correcting significant errors and separating fact from speculation. Those standards apply whoever the subject is. Equally, a story can be accurate and make my client look terrible. If that's the case, we need to deal with what happened. Calling it false because it's uncomfortable to read won't help either of us.

There are people I won't work with

Being open-minded doesn't mean I'll take on absolutely anyone. Child sexual abusers are a firm no for me. I also choose not to represent family vloggers, for a different reason: I'm deeply uncomfortable with people building a business around exposing their children's private lives.

I've spoken to children who've described being forced into that content, and I found those conversations disturbing. Agreeing to be filmed isn't the same as understanding what it means for your childhood to become something strangers can watch, save and discuss for years. A child can't meaningfully agree to consequences they're too young to understand, especially when the person asking is their parent and the family's income may depend on them going along with it.

The adult gets to call it a career while the child lives with the exposure. A child's distress, embarrassment or private conversation shouldn't become a way of making money for the person they rely on to protect them. Calling it "sharing our family life" doesn't answer whose privacy is being sold, or whether they had a real choice. I'm not interested in helping make that look wholesome.

I also quite often get men contacting me about allegations of sexual misconduct, including allegations involving children. Sometimes, as they explain what they want from me, the red flags are practically smacking me in the face. An allegation alone doesn't prove guilt, and my gut isn't evidence. But I don't need to reach a verdict about someone to decide I'm not comfortable taking them on.

That isn't the same as turning away everyone who has been accused of something. I also help people who have been falsely accused, or whose acquittal is much harder to find online than the original allegation. It's about what I see in that particular conversation, not the accusation on its own.

None of this contradicts my belief that everyone deserves accurate reporting. I can believe that without personally representing everyone. And I've got it wrong myself. I used to be more naive, and more willing to believe that someone being open with me meant I was getting the full story. I've believed men and women who later turned out to have lied about serious things. It's horrible to realise you've trusted an account that doesn't hold up.

I think my gut is a bit smarter now, although I still check it against the evidence. Being let down hasn't made me stop listening. It's made me more careful about what I'm prepared to repeat on someone's behalf.

Some boundaries apply to every client. I won't make up evidence, knowingly mislead a journalist, intimidate someone into silence or help hide ongoing harm. Honesty is a basic professional expectation, and it's reflected in the CIPR's code of conduct. Protecting someone's legitimate privacy doesn't justify a denial you know is false. Sometimes something needs checking before anyone can responsibly comment, and I'd rather explain that than give a confident answer we later have to unpick.

What, exactly, are we asking them to apologise for?

The public is often judging a situation from limited information: a headline, a clip, a few selected messages or one person's account of an argument. Some of it may be accurate but missing context. Some may simply be wrong. From the outside, people often can't tell which is which, yet they move from "apparently this happened" to demanding an apology remarkably quickly.

That's why I'm very firm about the advice to "just apologise and it'll go away" when someone hasn't done what they're accused of. If you apologise for the alleged behaviour, you give the public every reason to think you're admitting it happened. People aren't thinking, perhaps their PR adviser suggested this to calm everyone down. They're thinking, well, they've apologised, so they must have done it.

Clients sometimes bring me in alongside another PR firm, and I've had very direct disagreements over this. Another adviser has wanted an apology issued and I've put my foot down: absolutely not. What, specifically, are we asking this person to apologise for, and what evidence shows they did it? If we can't answer that, I'm not recommending they accept blame just so we have a statement to release. That apology can be quoted back at them for years.

Someone might need to apologise for one part of a situation while disputing another. Perhaps their response was rude, but the allegation that prompted it was false. You need to be precise about both. A vague apology that lumps several accusations together leaves everyone with a less accurate picture.

Getting that right matters when criticism is fair too. If a business mishandled a complaint, it should answer for that. Adding an unsupported claim of fraud gives it something else to argue about, and the real failure can get pushed aside.

Before advising an apology, I want to know what happened, what the evidence supports and what responsibility the person actually has. If they've caused harm, we need to talk about what they can put right and change. The volume of criticism tells me how much attention a situation is getting. It doesn't, on its own, tell me who's right.

Why I do this work

I like people. I find them interesting, including the ones I disagree with. I'd rather ask questions than assume I already know, and I think people deserve a fair hearing without that being mistaken for automatic belief.

Sometimes my job is correcting a claim that should never have been published. Sometimes it's telling a client that the criticism they want to dismiss is fair. Sometimes it's helping a perfectly decent person stop panicking long enough to work out what needs doing. It can be all of those in the same day.

I don't think someone should have to be universally liked before they're allowed help. I do think that help should be honest, and that the people reading about them deserve an accurate account. You can still dislike someone when you know the facts. You don't need a false story to justify it.

If you need help with a situation

If you're facing media scrutiny, online backlash or inaccurate information about you or your business, get in touch with a brief outline and any urgent deadline. You don't need to tidy up the story before we speak. Knowing what actually happened is much more useful.

I'll help you understand what needs attention, what can realistically be done and how I could help.