Everyone is a victim these days – even me

Lord Moore and I go back a ways, more than 40-odd years. I clearly remember the first time we met in editor Alexander Chancellor’s office at The Spectator. I was called in and Alexander introduced me to a fresh-looking 25-year-old Charles who had just been named foreign editor. ‘He went to our old school,’ joked Alexander, knowing full well I was not an Old Etonian. ‘I don’t remember you there,’ said I. ‘I think I was there a bit after you,’ answered Charles.

Many years later, and after Charles had kept me on despite my four-month graduate studies at Pentonville, I attended a party at his and Caroline’s house. I remember it as if it were yesterday. My Alexandra, who treasures children almost obsessively, noticed twin potties and pulled me aside, pointing them out. The Moores had twins, a boy and a girl, one of whom, William, now slaves away in The Speccie office.