In 2019 I had to explain to Iain Dale – live on LBC – that Rod Liddle’s suggestion in his Spectator column that elections should be held on Islamic holy days to deter Muslims from voting was not a serious proposal. Neither was his idea that students be drugged by their parents to the same end. It was humour, and they were jokes.
When he was in hospital a few weeks ago, I visited Rod with some cake. While he munched away, he expressed a sense of regret that he could have been a great writer. Rod always thought his true calling was writing fiction, rather than journalism, and always wondered if he’d sold his soul by following the money.
He was right – he did have the makings of a British Houellebecq. But while we only need to re-read Too Beautiful For You, his short-story compilation from 2003, to see his potential for quirky black material, I felt it was unfair of Rod to downgrade his journalism. The cult following for his columns and articles showed that his writing had diamond-quality – and, like a diamond, it was cutting. Hilarious, irreverent and taking no prisoners, he said what needed to be said. See one of his best pieces of this decade on taking in a Ukrainian. ‘Do you have any photographs?’ Rod asked.
I was fortunate enough to become a friend of Rod’s when he joined the Social Democratic party (SDP) in 2018. I was flattered that he believed in me and the party and he devoted much of the subsequent eight years speaking, writing and promoting it. He delivered no fewer than eight speeches to SDP conferences, the first one at Peterborough in 2019. This speech contained brilliant flashes of insight into the political economy but was also punctuated with expletives and a bizarre account of his expulsion from the Labour party. After viewing the footage the following week and deciding it was probably too outrageous to publish, I phoned Rod to check if he understood my reasoning. ‘It’s no problem, Will. Put it out!’ he said. ‘What? Even the bit about the rubber doll?’ I replied.
Our attempts to raise serious funding for the party always foundered on the SDP’s wishes for a state strong and competent enough to run trains, build houses and supply water and cheap electricity to its citizens. Time and time again Rod and I – and our dear colleague Patrick O’Flynn – found that these matters were not a prime concern of the very wealthy. But there were some highlights. We once assembled at a potential funder’s house overlooking Regent’s Park and Rod took a shine to some of the art on his walls. ‘Just give us the Rubens,’ he suggested, to no avail. One year previously I took an important and generous donor to public causes to my house in Orkney with the same aim. Rod telephoned after we got no results: ‘What does he want – a blowjob?’
Rod would also make up party policy on the hoof. When I pointed out that a policy he had just trumpeted wasn’t in the SDP manifesto, he’d bark back: ‘Yes, but it should be.’ His advocacy for the SDP cause remained. When interviewing him for the Telegraph during the 2024 general election, Liam Halligan mentioned that other candidates were available. Rod replied, ‘Yes, but they’re all morons.’
When I pointed out a policy he had trumpeted wasn’t in the manifesto, he’d bark back: ‘Yes, but it should be’
When Rod moved north to Weardale in 2021, close to my home in Northumberland, our friendship deepened. We spent Sunday evenings competing in the local pub quiz where Rod’s encyclopaedic knowledge was confirmed. He had very few blind spots, and would lap up 80 per cent of the questions himself. He’d then rely on his wife, Alicia, and me to get over the line and take the prize money. The fourth member of our ‘Gang of Four’ was Rod’s labrador who, by constantly emitting the foulest fumes, could drive competing teams from the pub. On the few occasions we were not successful Rod would positively fume: ‘Only c**ts lose.’
There were private aspects of Rod’s life which did not conform to his public persona, such as his profound Christianity. He inherited the low Protestantism of his mother along with her suspicion of Roman Catholics. And his views on homosexuality were closer to the book of Leviticus than modern sentiment. His advocacy of animal welfare was implacable. Of course, there were other opinions which were less well founded – such as his inexplicable loathing of Led Zeppelin and Queens Park Rangers.
Rod understood friendship and forgiving, and I will miss our long discussions on the political philosophy of John Gray – and of music. No longer can we debate for hours whether Nils Lofgren’s ‘Moon Tears’ is superior to ‘You’re the Weight’.
My wife once observed that beneath Rod’s brusque exterior, all Millwall and kicking against the pricks, lay a deeply sentimental, gentle and sensitive soul. This was true. Farewell, Rod. Our loss is heaven’s gain.
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