Everyone needs a lucky break, and mine came one Saturday afternoon in 1986 in Fleet Street’s famous watering hole, El Vino, where I was enjoying a lunchtime drink with a friend from university days. Conrad Black had just bought the Telegraph titles from the last of the old press barons, Lord Hartwell, and there was much speculation about the future. Suddenly the door burst open, and the new arrival announced in a loud voice: “Perry’s got the Sunday and Max has the Daily.”
As we mulled over the full implication of Conrad Black’s choice of Peregrine Worsthorne and Max Hastings, I found myself sitting next to Graham Paterson, news editor of the Sunday Telegraph. On hearing that I was a doctor, he promptly hired me as medical correspondent, on a retainer of £30 a week.
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