I must be careful what I say about James Delingpole. When he was introduced at a party to the last person who gave him a bad review, he snapped, ‘I don’t talk to c***s,’ and cut him dead.

This is the Delingpole trademark – I say what I bloody think, no messing around. It’s the technique he uses in his Spectator television column, often avoiding the subject of telly altogether and complaining about his real concern – he’s bloody brilliant, so why isn’t he living in a Georgian double-fronted house in Islington and why aren’t his children at Eton? 

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