ROD LIDDLE (1960 - 2025): AN OBITUARY

Rod Liddle, who has set off to argue with the saints at the age of 66, was the sort of journalist who made one wonder whether the Fourth Estate had been wise to abandon its feudal origins. Born on April Fool’s Day 1960 – a date that, in his case, suggested either cosmic jest or impeccable career planning – he rose from Teesside roots to edit BBC Radio 4’s Today programme, only to resign in 2002 when the Corporation discovered, to its exquisite dismay, that impartiality and Rod Liddle were not natural bedfellows. 

In the years that followed, Liddle colonised the opinion pages of The Spectator, The Sunday Times and The Sun with a vigour that suggested he viewed the English language less as a vehicle for nuance than as a blunt instrument for poking sacred cows until they filed complaints. Where others saw complex social phenomena, Liddle detected pattern and folly: immigration as a time bomb, identity politics as a collective nervous breakdown, and the liberal consensus as a form of institutional self-harm conducted with the serene confidence of the well-pensioned. His critics called him a provocateur; his readers, when not writing letters demanding his head on a pike, found in him the relief of a man willing to say the unsayable, often before breakfast. 

He wrote books too – Selfish Whining Monkeys among them – in which he surveyed modern Britain with the affectionate exasperation of a man watching his favourite pub slide into gastro-pub irrelevance. There were marriages, divorces, children (Wilder, Tyler and Emmy, who spoke of him with touching filial loyalty), and a late tilt at parliamentary candidacy that confirmed politics had not lost its capacity to disappoint. Through it all, he maintained the air of a man who had wandered into the culture wars by accident and decided to enjoy the artillery.

Death, that ultimate sub-editor, has now blue-pencilled the lot. One suspects Liddle would have greeted it with a raised eyebrow and a column about how even mortality had been captured by the metropolitan elite. He was, in his irascible, indefatigable way, a reminder that journalism at its best is not a polite seminar but a bar brawl with footnotes. Britain’s public discourse is quieter for his absence, and perhaps a little duller. Which, one fancies, would have pleased him no end.

TOMCATS, HANDSHAKES, AND THE ART OF NOT QUITE IMPLODING

In the great British tradition of turning necessity into a spectator sport, one finds oneself observing the latest pas de deux between Nigel Farage and Rupert Lowe with the sort of weary amusement once reserved for the literary feuds of lesser mortals. Here we are again, in the summer of 2026, watching two men who have spent recent months circling each other like affronted tomcats suddenly entertain the faint possibility of not quite tearing each other limb from limb. Farage’s response to Lowe’s offer of amends was not the instant, resounding “No” that certain loyalists in his orbit had devoutly wished for. In politics, as in marriage, the absence of immediate rejection can feel like the nearest thing to poetry.

The situation is, of course, richly absurd. Reform UK, that curious vehicle which has spent the past year or so trying to persuade the electorate that it is both revolutionary and respectable, finds itself nudged rightward by a breakaway outfit whose very name - Restore Britain - sounds like the title of a particularly optimistic heritage charity pamphlet. Lowe and his associates have performed the useful, if undignified, service of clearing mines that the main party preferred to pretend were not there. They have prodded Reform towards harder thinking on deportations, demographics, and the general sense that the country is sliding, with elegant inexorability, into managed decline. For this public service they have been rewarded with the traditional British conservative welcome: suspicion, recrimination, and the occasional pointed silence.

Yet even Farage, that most resilient of political operators, appears to recognise that the current estrangement is unsustainable. The right, such as it is, risks splitting its vote with the enthusiasm of a drunkard dividing his last tenner between rival bookmakers. Meanwhile - Labour, still wearing the expression of a man who has won the lottery only to discover the ticket belongs to someone else - continues its experiment in socialist governance, with all the attendant joys of open borders, strained public services, and the quiet conviction that the native population is a tiresome anachronism best managed rather than consulted. The prospect of another term of this, or worse, concentrates the mind wonderfully.

One must, therefore, permit oneself a flicker of hope. An agreement between the two men, sealed with something resembling the famous RFK-Trump handshake, would be seismic indeed. It would nullify the most damaging accusations against Farage: that he lacks magnanimity, that his fallings-out are permanent, that personal honour sometimes takes second place to personal loyalty. It would restore a measure of credibility on those stubborn issues; mass immigration, cultural cohesion, the simple demographic mathematics that polite society prefers not to mention aloud. Above all, it would demonstrate to a sceptical electorate that the patriotic side of British politics is capable of doing what the left does instinctively: subordinating ego to collective survival.

And yet, how one laments the near-impossibility of it all. British conservatism has always been better at producing elegant essays on the national character than at the vulgar business of winning power. Personalities loom large; histories of slights and counter-slights stretch back like family grudges at a wedding. The centre, that mythical beast so eagerly courted by Reform in its more conciliatory phases, turns out to be largely fictional, a polite fiction maintained by think-tank reports and focus groups. Meanwhile, the base, once estranged, does not return with the docile gratitude of a prodigal son; it returns, if at all, sceptical and demanding evidence of genuine conversion. The mines have been cleared, but the ground remains treacherous.

Without some form of rapprochement, the electoral mathematics look bleak. Britain’s escape from the embrace of the socialist far left - those earnest, well-scrubbed graduates who speak of 'equity' while presiding over decline - depends on a broad coalition of the disaffected. Millions who have never voted before, former Conservatives disillusioned by fourteen years of administrative competence without conviction, and those who simply wish to recognise that the country they love is slipping away. Such a coalition cannot be built on purity spirals or the satisfaction of old scores. It requires, in the end, the least romantic of political virtues: calculation, compromise, and the occasional public swallowing of pride.

One hopes, against the accumulated evidence of decades, that Farage and Lowe might yet manage it. Not because either man is a flawless saviour (politics rarely supplies those), but because the alternative is too dispiriting to contemplate. A nation that cannot unite even its own malcontents against the slow administrative capture of its institutions deserves, perhaps, the government it gets. But hope, that most stubborn of British virtues, persists in imagining otherwise: a moment of magnanimity, however grudging, that might yet tilt the board. The odds are long, the spectacle, as ever, is grimly entertaining, and the stakes - as Farage himself has noted - could scarcely be higher.

DEMOCRACY'S DAY OFF IN MANCHESTER

In the damp annals of British political theatre, where provincial potentates once promised to devolve power like so many municipal Santa Clauses, we now witness the sequel that no one particularly queued for. Greater Manchester, that throbbing conurbation of rain-lashed ambition and intermittent footballing despair, has just staged a mayoral by-election with a turnout of around 25%. One can picture the ghosts of civic reformers past—those earnest chaps who dreamed of regional barons wielding budgets over housing, transport, and policing—gazing down in mild bewilderment. Twenty-five per cent. It is not so much a democratic exercise as a polite suggestion that the electorate has better things to do, perhaps involving a kettle and a strong view on whether the biscuits have gone soft.

This, of course, is the natural progression from the raving loonies coming second to actual madness in Gorton and Denton only months earlier. There, the native Briton’s heroic indifference allowed organised blocs and earnest environmentalists to carve up the spoils while the sofa class exercised its inalienable right to remain horizontal. Now, in the realm of the Metro Mayor—Andy Burnham’s former fiefdom, no less—the apathy has achieved something close to perfection. A city-region billed as vital, dynamic, and bristling with devolved importance has mustered the enthusiasm of a wet Wednesday afternoon in Stockport. Staggering, one might say, if one were the sort to stagger. Horrific, declares our man on X, and for once the hyperbole feels almost measured. Manchester, important? Undoubtedly. Important enough for three-quarters of its eligible voters to interrupt their torpor? Evidently not.

One must admire the Metro Mayor experiment for its exquisite pointlessness, a masterclass in administrative theatre. Created with all the fanfare of a new public convenience, these regional overlords were to bridge the gap between Whitehall’s lofty abstractions and the gritty realities of the provinces. Yet here we are, post-Burnham’s ascension to the Commons (MPs and mayors being, it seems, incompatible in the way that certain chemicals react badly in the stomach), watching a by-election that cost millions and engaged fewer citizens than a moderately successful pub quiz. The candidates from Labour, Reform, the Greens, and sundry others vied for the honour of chairing a cabinet of borough leaders, setting priorities that might, on a good day with a following wind, influence the frequency of trams or the sternness of parking enforcement. Power, in other words, of the sort that makes one wonder why anyone bothered leaving the house—except, of course, they mostly didn’t.

Andy Burnham himself has lately been musing about Australian-style compulsory voting. One can almost hear the collective sigh of a nation that invented both habeas corpus and the tactical abstention. Australia, that sun-baked land of rules, cricket, and democracy sausages, drags its citizens to the polls with the gentle threat of a modest fine, achieving turnouts that hover in the high nineties. The result, we are told, is a more representative electorate, less prone to capture by the motivated fringes. Burnham, fresh from his mayoral perch, now eyes this mechanism as a cure for the democratic narcolepsy he helped preside over. It is the sort of proposal that makes one reach for the gin: not entirely mad on paper, yet freighted with the delicious possibility of biting its proponent squarely in the posterior.

For if compulsory voting were introduced, the great unwashed—those indifferent masses who treated the Greater Manchester contest as optional background noise—would be compelled to render a verdict on the very devolved structures that failed to stir them. Metro Mayors, suddenly answerable to a fuller cross-section of the populace rather than the diligent few who can be arsed, might find their grandeur somewhat deflated. No longer could one rely on low turnout to mask the gap between rhetoric and delivery; the sofa warriors, roused from their slumbers by the faint threat of bureaucracy, might spoil their ballots with artistic genitalia or, worse, vote for the candidate promising to abolish the whole pointless apparatus. The irony would be exquisite: Burnham, architect of the mayoral model in practice if not in name, inadvertently engineering a system that exposes its hollowness. One secretly hopes it does bite him, if only for the poetic justice. Few spectacles delight quite like a reformer hoist with his own petard, preferably while wearing the ceremonial chain of office.

Of course, the British recoil is instinctive. Compulsion sits ill with a people who regard rules as personal insults and authority as something to be endured with a raised eyebrow and a quiet pint. Force us to vote and the polling stations would become carnivals of passive resistance: donkey votes for the first name on the list, essays on the futility of the enterprise, or perhaps a surge in support for the Monster Raving Loonies, whose porcine candidates at least possess the virtue of honesty about their absurdity. Australia manages it with barbecues and conformity; we would manage it with complaints, exemptions, and a thriving black market in plausible excuses involving errant dogs and urgent plumbing emergencies. The bureaucracy would bloom like Japanese knotweed, the fines would mutate into poll taxes by stealth, and the noble experiment in civic duty would end, as so many do, in a quinoa kebab of moral superiority tasting faintly of damp resentment.

Yet the alternative is the status quo: democracy as optional spectator sport, where importance is proclaimed from the podium while the electorate votes with its feet—usually in the direction of the television remote. In Greater Manchester, a mere 25% bothered to show up for a role that Burnham once occupied with characteristic vigour. The message is clear enough: Metro Mayors, for all their devolved pomp, have yet to convince the public they are worth missing a lie-in. If compulsory voting arrives as the reluctant remedy, it may finally force the conversation these experiments were meant to provoke. Whether that conversation ends with the abolition of the Metro Mayor model or merely its reform is anyone’s guess. One thing is certain: the apathy was staggering. The remedy, if applied, promises to be even more so.

Despair, as ever, remains the rational response. But at least under compulsion, we should have earned the right to complain with a full ballot paper in hand—preferably one marked with the quiet dignity of a crossed-out list and a doodle of a pig in a mayoral robe. In Britain, that might count as progress.