Remembering Frank Johnson

I spent the first half of today at Gordon Brown’s leadership launch and then Frank Johnson’s memorial service. One was a magnificent, vibrant showcasing of a man’s national reach, achievement, intellect and wide support, a glittering gathering. The other was a sombre assembly of the bereft, gloomy and sepulchral. But, then, such events never were Gordon’s strong point.

How many journalists in the history of Fleet Street could have inspired such an occasion? The reading by the Leader of the Conservative Party; two splendid addresses by Sir Peregrine Worsthorne and Stephen Glover; and music – what music! – that included a Tchaikovsky aria sung by Sir Willard White. The congregation was a veritable galaxy of top politicians, editors past and present, friends and family. What a glorious tribute to a true legend of his trade, an ex-editor of The Spectator, who, you can be sure, is even now at the heart of the gossip and debate in the great celestial coffee house.