I do the overnight from Washington in order to be back for Jewish Book Week. Some months ago the organisers asked who I would like to interview me. I suggested Fraser Nelson or one of my other delightful Spectator colleagues. They give me Rod Liddle. Dozing on the plane, after a foul BA dinner and a beaker of Scotch, my mind throws up a highly specific nightmare. Before an impeccably liberal London Jewish audience, Rod eyes me manically and — rubbing his hands — begins with ‘So, Douglas, what are we going to do about the bloody immigrants?’ The hall goes into uproar. Sweating profusely, I appeal for calm. The event is cancelled. Of course, on the night nothing of the sort happens. Though he would hate me to say so, Rod is the finest interviewer imaginable. He pushes back at times, tests, disputes — and lets me speak. The packed hall at Kings Place is appreciative, as is an overflow room where people have paid to watch a live relay on the big screen.
This is an extract from Douglas Murray’s diary, which appears in this week’s Spectator
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