In the early 2000s, academics, philosophers, politicians, members of the royal household and business people – including the CEO and the owner of a newspaper group – sometimes came round to the house for tea, drinks or dinner. Anxious to keep up, I started to read the papers more thoroughly. The Economist and New Statesman I found dull. On the recommendation of a friend, I bought The Spectator. The writing was better. Sometimes you’d find arguments for and against a subject, for example fox hunting, in the same magazine. But more than that – it was entertaining. Jeremy Clarke’s Low Life column, however, was in another league. It was poetry; brilliantly observed, lyrical, fearless and funny. He wrote about subjects little-known to most readers: football hooliganism, the Torbay club scene, drug-taking and alcohol-fuelled violence. He wrote about disastrous relationships, domestic irritations and travel; some weeks a visit to the zoo or game of chess with his young grandson. There were quiet, descriptive columns about the Devon countryside and its inhabitants.

Buying The Spectator was a political reverse ferret from the, by then, long-abandoned extreme left-wing politics of my teens and early twenties. I didn’t agree with some of the columnists but admired the quality of the writing and, becoming better informed, grew more confident in company. Every Saturday morning, I got up before anyone else and enjoyed a two-hour cover-to-cover feast.

In 2010, during a trying time when hilarity was scarce, Jeremy published a column, ‘An Absolute Shocker’, which made me laugh so much I wrote to The Spectator suggesting it publish a Low Life collection. I got no reply. A year later in September 2011, Jeremy announced the publication of his first book of columns. He said he would invite 15 readers to the publishing party and asked those who’d like to go to submit ‘puerile and offensive’ jokes to a competition he would judge. The best would receive an invitation. I sent an email explaining how grateful I was to Jeremy for making me laugh and an anecdote (mildly amusing I thought) about why I couldn’t attend the party. Appended for Jeremy’s amusement were two puerile and offensive jokes.

A month later I was surprised to receive an email from The Spectator inviting me to the book launch party and then surprised myself by deciding to go after all and booking a train from Glasgow to London Euston, returning by sleeper the same evening. On 3 November, after a solitary lunch at the bar of a restaurant in St James’s, I flagged down a taxi and asked the driver to take me to the nearest pub to The Spectator, where I ordered a glass of wine and read. At last it was 6 p.m. and I climbed the stairs to the darkest ladies’ loo in London and, in the gloom, redid my make-up. Ten minutes later I was standing at the door of The Spectator offices in Old Queen Street. The front desk was deserted but there were voices downstairs so I took a deep breath and went in search of the party.

At last it was 6 p.m. and I climbed the stairs to the darkest ladies’ loo in London

There were about 20 people in the room. Soon I had a glass of champagne in my hand and was introduced to the editor, Fraser Nelson. I told him how my middle daughter had heard him give the valedictory speech a few years before at Dollar Academy, where she was a weekly boarder and he’d been a pupil. My daughter was 16 at the time and impressed – breathlessly telling me Fraser was ‘dead old but really hot’. When I asked her how old he was, she said: ‘Oh, at least 35!’

The room filled up. Everyone was friendly, interesting and fun. I forgot my nerves. Jokes, good and bad, were flying. Jeremy appeared and made a speech thanking people for coming, and introducing his ex, the femme fatale ‘Sharon’, and friends ‘Trevor’ and ‘Tom’, frequent characters from his column. He chatted to guests, eventually introducing himself to me. I don’t remember what we talked about, only that he had inquisitive blue-grey eyes and an intense gaze.

I don’t remember what we talked about, only that Jeremy had inquisitive blue-grey eyes and an intense gaze

Later in the garden I sat beside Sharon and offered her a cigarette. She’d arrived drunk and was having difficulty staying upright on the bench, so I got her a soft drink. After a while she wanted to go to the loo but couldn’t stand up. ‘Tom’ helped me get her to the door and I manoeuvred her
into a cubicle. She could hardly move her arms by this point and her beautiful golden head was flopping all over the place. I helped her arrange herself on the seat; knickers down, dress lifted up and left her to it, turning on a few taps as an afterthought. A few minutes later I heard a crash, opened the door and found Sharon on the floor wedged between the door and toilet, the seat of which had broken off and was still attached to her bare bottom.

Later still, on the pavement, Jeremy told me the party was going on to the pub and asked me to join them. Sharon was just about vertical again and they were discussing how to get her on and then off the train home to Birmingham, a plan soon abandoned. But it was time for me to leave for the station. Jeremy shouted after me: ‘Come to Devon!’

Lying in the sleeper compartment, I opened the copy of Low Life: One Middle-Aged Man in Search of the Point I’d bought at the party and read the inscription: ‘To lovely, lovely Catriona, Funny but you are how I imagined. Best love, from Jeremy X.’