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Rod Liddle got me into journalism. We always had The Spectator lying around the house when I was young. I soon learned to turn to him first, as most good readers of the magazine do.
My father and I would often read his columns aloud to each other and laugh ourselves into fits. That was Rod’s sublime talent: he made people LOL, long before the internet did.
My first job was at the Catholic Herald, and my then-boss Damian Thompson advised me to improve my writing by copying out the articles of my favorite columnist. I chose Rod, obviously, though of course I could never dream of imitating his style or imaginative wit. I particularly enjoyed his fascination with “the nematode worm which stabs itself to death with its own penis.”
In my first week at The Spectator, I felt daunted when Mary Wakefield, the then-deputy editor, asked me to call Rod, my hero, in order to ask what he was going to write about. I dialed his landline from the office phone. “What d’ya want motherfucker?” he answered, sans hello. I couldn’t have loved him more.
