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. Despite the very spiky conversation, we got on like a house on fire. It started off with an argument. I told him I was a Conservative. He sniffed at me in disgust and told me he was a member of the SDP.
We got on like a house on fire – even if he did sniff at me in disgust when I told him I was a Conservative
Somewhere during the conversation, he looked me up and down and said: ‘I suppose you think I’m some racist old bigot, don’t you?’ I laughed, we drank, others joined in.
