The Spectator is a civilised paper. If they give you a weekly column, they are pleased for you to say what you like. The only editorial interference you can expect, apart from being hired, is the sack. They’d all rather die a slow and horrible death than exert the slightest influence over what you write.
Each week I email this column to the infinitely forgiving Arts editor, Liz Anderson, who has cheerfully fielded my usually late copy for ten years. The only time she interferes with the content — and always with tremendous reluctance and a profusion of stricken apologies — is when the lawyer has indicated that he is ‘uncomfortable’ about something and that we should change a name or delete a libellous word. It’s happened once, maybe twice.
But I had an immediate response from Liz about last week’s column — a litany of woe about my boy’s current financial, domestic and employment situation.
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