Trust me

I was about to tell you of a wonderful weekend in Devon, the Wembury House vs the Zac Goldsmith team cricket match, the beautiful young girls that watched it, the brilliant party that Zac gave following it, and my disgrace (out second ball) on the field. (I made up for it a bit fielding, injuring myself while trying to save face.) In any case, the Hanbury team won, the sun shone like never before, everyone went home happy, but something has occurred in the meantime that takes precedence over the High life.

Before I begin, however, a word to our loyal readers. As some of you must have guessed by now, Lord Black, the proprietor of The Spectator, and I have had our differences over the years. They’ve been mostly over my pro-Palestinian stance, my at times over-the-top admiration of the Wehrmacht, and the fact that I shoot my mouth off before I think when I believe some outrage has taken place. Lord Black and I see each other probably two to three times a year. It is always at his invitation. He has never accepted any of mine except once, long ago. It is safe to say that he and I do not run around with the same people.

Having said that, Lord Black, despite his criticisms of my writings, has always been very fair. He has refused to fire me despite many demands for my head by friends of The Spectator, people who believe I am harming the oldest and most elegantly written weekly of the English-speaking world. Be that as it may, I like to believe that I have never lied to my readers, and have never consciously misled them. This is my only accomplishment in 26 years of writing this column, and I’m rather proud of it.