So much was written about Bill Deedes at the time of his death — not to mention his own two autobiographies and the mass of other doting media coverage in recent years — that readers might be forgiven for thinking that this intelligently probing and well-written authorised biography would have little fresh to say. Truth to tell, that is what this reviewer feared. My hopes for the book, however, were soon realised because early on Stephen Robinson, himself a veteran Telegraph man, tells us that Bill went to great lengths ‘to weed out all the disobliging references to himself in his voluminous filing cabinet’. Disobliging references? Shurely shome mistake. Why would anybody want to disoblige dear Bill? That is the question which this book tries to answer, and succeeds definitively. Quite simply, dear Bill was not nearly so dear as his legend would have us believe.
First of all that friendship with Denis Thatcher never really existed, if only because Deedes was incapable, until the very end of his life, of forming any close personal relationships, not even with his wife and children, whom he neglected cruelly.
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