Too Liddle, too late

Rod Liddle was a rarity in the world of British journalism in that he could write.

I mean really write. The way Orwell and Chesterton could write, and Auberon Waugh and Christopher Hitchens too. The way Mark Steyn wrote in his prime (his interview with Monica Lewinsky’s dress was more Swiftian than Swift) and the way Julie Burchill continues to write because Julie would want me to make it clear that, like Miss Jean Brodie, she is still in her prime.

Hardly anyone writes like that anymore.

Stylish and original prose, the kind that drives you immediately from the final sentence back to the first, the kind you can quote from memory years after you initially encountered it, has all but vanished from British journalism, most likely because of changing industry economics or maybe because no bugger reads anymore.

Now when you stumble across great writing — The Spectator’s Madeline Grant; Ben Sixsmith of The Critic (though not of Martin, just FYI, but possibly of David, who might or might not be a bishop, and a mathematician); the kids over at The Fence — it’s like finding a samizdat inside a library book in 1960s Leningrad. Reading becomes a thrill again.

Reading Rod Liddle was a thrill for a heaving audience of Spectator and Sunday Times subscribers. He translated their thoughts into fluid, punchy, outrageous prose, and in return they were deeply loyal to a man who thrust his thumb into the eyes of every insufferable little lanyard jockey responsible for immiserating the lives of the British people.

There were others, of course, whom he didn’t thrill. Islamists, feminists, and anti-racists. Trans activists, multiculturalists, Labour MPs. Anyone who failed, or refused, to recognise irony. Not to mention whiny, po-faced, you-can’t-say-that-nowadays wet sponges like, well, me. I disagreed with most of what he wrote, centrist pansy that I am, but I never missed a column. The devil has all the best tunes and the right the best columnists.

The only time he properly annoyed me was a 2019 column in which he suggested holding elections on a day when ‘Muslims are forbidden to do anything on pain of hell’. Reading the line back today it sounds almost mild compared to his other outpourings on Islam, which he regarded as an invading, colonising force.

Still, I took issue with the remark and, unwilling to listen to reason, which in this instance took the form of Fraser Nelson, I included a dig at Rod in my next Coffee House piece, which happened to be on halal slaughter. I quipped — God, I cringe to read the words now — that he was a ‘Tesco Value Ann Coulter’.

The primary problem with this as a putdown is that it’s really bad writing. Dunking on your target by comparing him to one of the most successful right-wing polemicists of the 21st century is certainly a choice.

Besides, there was nothing supermarket-brand about Rod Liddle. He was a luxury word-slinger, a top-of-the-range controversialist. If his columns were sold in Tesco they’d have to be kept behind those plastic cages that are now needed because of that issue Rod was only too eager to talk about and which got him called a racist every time he did.

‘Tesco Value Ann Coulter’ are the four dumbest words I’ve ever written and if I could take them back I would. Liddle’s most dashed-out-hungover missive had more wit, more insight into human behaviour, and more joy in the crafting of sentences than the leaden prating of his dullard detractors, myself most definitely included.

To anyone unfamiliar with his work, do yourself a favour and spend an afternoon on the Speccie’s online archives reading some of the sparkiest, most sparkling prose the magazine has published. Rod was Liddle value, and while that value can be measured in the volume of his fans and of his dreary, censorious haters, the metric I prefer is the writing he leaves behind. Real writing.