Once upon a time, Paul Dacre and I would meet for an annual lunch. These were pleasant enough occasions, usually in a discreet restaurant of his choosing. The conversation would generally fall into two parts: a) a shaking-of-the-head mystification at the way the world had gone downhill since, oh, about 1956; and b) an analysis of the failings of most of the other Fleet Street newspapers.
I did not personally mind the Pop Larkin nostalgia bit; and his dissection of his fellow editors’ weaknesses was invariably acute. Whatever you thought of his politics, Dacre knew what made a newspaper tick and it was always instructive to listen to his often scathing analysis of our peers.
Subscribe to The New Statesman today from only £8.99 per month
Content from our partners
