Thirteen years ago, Jason Cowley – then the new-ish editor of this magazine, now standing down after 16 years at the helm – asked me for a coffee. At the time, I’d written more for the Spectator. How about a column in the New Statesman? A proper journalist, at that moment, would have had a pitch ready for exactly how they would approach things – subjects, opinions, terrain, grooves on the track.
Instead, we mostly talked about what I didn’t want to do. Not this, not that; not too much sport, but not none; something different, without knowing quite what. It’s not always clear what’s the hinterland and what’s the primary focus; perhaps it shouldn’t be. Jason took out an elegant New Statesman postcard and wrote “Left Field” in black fountain pen across the top. Yes, something like that.
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