Satire

As seen in the Times ‘Oh, sod the glass, let’s have a bottle.’ Our lunch at Daphne’s in Chelsea is entering its third hour. The waiter, a real dash, soon reappears, popping the cork of a Perrier-Jouët Belle Époque. Rebecca has been having a terrible time of it recently (her husband, ‘the bastard’, walked in on her bonking his business partner) and I’ll see no expense spared in cheering up an old Somerville gal pal. We gossip, we bitch, we whinge. We have a bloody good time. But when the bill arrives, the colour drains from my face. ‘It’s 534 quid a head!’ I shriek, launching into a bout of effing and jeffing about bloody Andy Burnham and his tax-mad Chancellor. No doubt about it: the jig’s well and truly up.

My all-time hero Sir: I was gutted to learn of the early death of one of my all-time heroes (8 August). Rod Liddle’s was the voice of a beleaguered Middle England, standing for the long-established Christian values of common sense, integrity, fairness, respect for all, and many other aspects so fundamental to this country’s traditional way of life. Rod never took prisoners: he just demolished their arguments with the supremely elegant and simple language. Richard LongfieldWeston Patrick, Hampshire A true wordsmith Sir: A friend speaks for all Liddleites when he writes: ‘Anyone who can think up the word “wankpuffin” is irreplaceable.’ RIP. J. C.H. MounseyMinchinhampton, Glos In Rod we trust Sir: Thank God for Rod.

It was in Westminster Magistrates’ Court, where I was sitting waiting for the judge’s verdict, that I decided I needed a better way of handling Rod Liddle’s column. As editor of this magazine, I had inherited one of its greatest writers; a force of nature loved by his readers for his bravery and candor. But it sometimes led to difficulties: in this case, criminal prosecution. The judge had a choice: prosecute our owners, the editor, or the magazine. The magazine was fined. “Rod was right,” I was told by Aidan Barclay, who as proprietor had nearly ended up in the dock himself. “But truth is no defense. Not any more. You need to spot these things before they blow up.

Since becoming Spectator editor there was one observation I heard more often from readers than any other: “Rod is the first page I turn to every week.” Whatever people’s politics, background or other interests, to be a Spectator reader was to love Rod. Rod did his best, of course, to be unlovable. At least in print. Nothing, and no one, apart from possibly Millwall, was spared from his criticism. Savage, foul-mouthed, merciless. But also hilarious, superbly well-informed and honest. Above all honest. There are all sorts of enlightened souls in and around journalism who pretend to that virtue.

One of the joys of being director of digital at The Spectator, back in 2015, was seeing the magazine proofs before they went to print. Rod Liddle’s column was the first thing I looked for, always the one I was most eager to read. He made me laugh every single time, something very few columnists are able to do. I was annoyed I liked those columns, because I didn’t want to like Rod Liddle. All I knew of his personal life was through the scandal that followed him leaving his wife during the so-called “Sextator” years. I took a dim view of that. Although we both worked for The Spectator, I didn’t actually meet Rod for a long time because, woke snowflake that he was, he only ever worked from home. The first time we met was at a Spectator summer party, years later.

I met Rod 22 years ago this month. We had been selected as teammates on a gameshow pilot, and, halfway through the morning’s filming, we went for a fag break. He said to me: “This is crap, shall we go to the pub?” We scarpered and spent the rest of the day in a Covent Garden pub, working our way through the drinks list and chatting away like chipmunks. I’d never been starstruck by anyone before I met Rod. However famous or talented actors are, their job is to say stuff written by other people. Rod, however, was a legend to me. I began reading his Guardian columns at university. Though I was studying all the greats of English literature, it was Rod’s writing which felt like a ribbon-wrapped gift, a treat, a joy.

I met Rod 22 years ago this month. We had been selected as team-mates on a gameshow pilot, and, halfway through the morning’s filming, we went for a fag break. He said to me: ‘This is crap, shall we go to the pub?’ We scarpered and spent the rest of the day in a Covent Garden pub, working our way through the drinks list and chatting away like chipmunks. He would tell me that all the best people treat their bodies like bins (and all the worst like temples) I’d never been starstruck by anyone before I met Rod. However famous or talented actors are, their job is to say stuff written by other people. Rod, however, was a legend to me. I began reading his Guardian columns at university.