August 5 2026 - 10:00am
When a public figure dies, it’s customary to post something respectful on social media. If you had a personal connection to them, the post might contain a fond memory or amusing anecdote. If you disliked them, you really ought to have the decency to keep that to yourself as others share their sadness and grief.
But inevitably, in the gladiatorial arena that platforms such as X have become, those harboring a hatred of public personalities they have never met still feel compelled to share their opinions as fact. All who dare to disagree, or have a slightly more nuanced take, will be piled upon, dismissed, canceled and added to the “Very Bad Person” list.
When a close friend of his messaged early on Monday to let me know that the journalist Rod Liddle had died the night before, I was shocked and upset. In that weird window of disbelief, I checked our last messages. Just two weeks previously, he had told me about the great care he’d been receiving at his local hospital and, not at all unusually, was more concerned about his family than himself. We agreed we would catch up properly when he was allowed to go home soon. It didn’t occur to me that we would never get that chance — that he wouldn’t, in fact, be going home again.
Our first encounters were awkward and far from pleasant. Rod made no secret of the fact he was angry at those young voters he blamed for overturning the Tories’ historic grip on Canterbury and imposing a “Corbynista” Leftie as his MP.
In my first few days in Parliament, I had a desk, a phone ringing off the hook, a couple of kind friends who had volunteered to answer it, and not yet a single member of staff. As I sat alone in my office one day, plowing through hundreds of emails to the backdrop of constantly wailing bagpipes, I cracked and decided not to let the calls go to voicemail.
An extremely grumpy constituent was ranting about the evils of Viagogo and what he described as the extortionate racket of dodgy ticket resales. At the end, I asked for his details and, when he shared his name and number, I chose not to admit that I wasn’t actually one of my imaginary team of staff. Later, I knew Rod would find that amusing, but never quite got around to confessing it was me on the other end of the line.
In 2019, when I made a speech in Parliament about my own experience of an abusive relationship, he mocked me rather spitefully in his Spectator column. That was a while before we met, before he concluded that he actually liked and respected me for standing up for my beliefs and refusing to simply toe the line.
We disagreed hugely on many issues — Brexit, immigration and Islam, for example — yet agreed on several others. Rod tried earnestly to persuade me that the mix of Left-of-center economics and socially conservative policies of the new Social Democratic Party was the future, while laughing at his own candidacy in the 2024 general election.
In the days following his death, there has been vitriol online directed not only at Rod but also at feminists who dared to be friendly with him. Along with the likes of Kathleen Stock and Julie Bindel, I expressed my sadness at his death. While many long for us to appreciate opposing views and engage in healthy, respectful debate, it seems that the policing of women’s every thought and word is still as rife as ever. Apparently, I am no longer allowed to call myself a feminist because Rod accepted a police caution for a domestic incident 20 years ago. I consider that to be an entirely personal matter for his wife and family, rather than the business of total strangers on social media.
Our friendship was one of mutual respect, gained by discovering our similarities at the same time as tolerating one another’s often vastly differing views. Once we got to know each other, he never stopped apologizing for that column, which I had long forgotten. Those friendships with thoughtful and interesting women, and that concern for his wife’s wellbeing despite his own illness, tell me more about him as a person than thousands of judgmental comments on social media ever will.
