Spectator Sports

“I was 12 when I first got laid.” “Where was that?” “In Middlesbrough.” “How the hell did you get lucky at 12 in Middlesbrough, when I only managed it at 15 and on my father’s boat off Cannes in 1952?” “It was a dark and stormy night.”

This was no tortured confession by some doomed poet or a gender-confused feminist, just party banter between the great Rod Liddle—who went Bulwer-Lytton on me—and the poor little Greek boy. The setting: the Old Queen Street garden where The Spectator is located and where we celebrated the sainted editor’s 50th anniversary. Before I get to that, what about Middlesbrough? Is it the water, the climate, or the girls that helped Rod lose his virginity so early? “I know who she is,” was all he said when I pumped him for more details. Never mind, his wife soon joined us and Rod changed the conversation to economics: Who will be the next lucky winner to own us?

Now, that’s the million-dollar question, if only it cost just a million to own the oldest and best magazine the world has ever known. When I first joined The Speccie, it was passed around from one owner to the next for nothing, as it cost a lot to own because it didn’t make a profit. Now that it does, it’s a whole different ballgame, as they say down in Louisiana.

Needless to say, the party was wonderful. Both Fraser and our executive editor Andrew Neil gave reassuring speeches and ordered the troops to stop speculating and start celebrating. Fraser Nelson has a very beautiful family, which as an ancient Greek I take to be a very good sign. Zeus and the rest of the gods created heroes with great looks, whereas they made the baddies look like crap. I spent most of the evening talking with Will Moore and his wonderful wife, Hannah, as well as Rod and Alicia, and drinking white wine nonstop until the end. Andrew Neil took one look at me and decided to cancel our planned post-party drink at Robin’s.

Here’s a tiny detail about what drink does to one: I wore a blazer with a Pugs Club insignia but ended up holding a leather jacket with some punk signs on it. I’ve never worn a leather jacket in my life but ended up holding it as if it were the Holy Grail. Go figure, as they never say in Middlesbrough.

Rod Liddle consistently hits the jackpot with his punchy prose and ironic truths, and so we sat in the dark talking about writers we knew and some who are still with us. I just loved the matter-of-fact manner with which he recounted what happened when he was 12, like the guy at the stadium gate repeating, “Tickets, please.” The other thing I noticed while still sober was that no one I spoke with had anything to say about the defenestration of our ex-editor Boris, the very same Boris of tax hikes and net-zero shame, yet still the working man’s Brexit hero. The great Maggie had Heseltine’s dagger firmly stuck between her shoulders, just as Boris has Harriet and Sunak’s scimitar between his. So what else is new about the Conservative Party? But as I said, the on-dit on that particular night was about The Telegraph and The Spectator, c’est tout.

Read the Whole Article

The Best of Taki Theodoracopulos