Rod Liddle writes for The Sunday Times and is a former speechwriter for the Labour Party and editor of the BBC's Today programme en-uk Tue, 30 Oct 2007 15:37:29 GMT Copyright 2007 Times Newspapers Ltd. custserv@timesonline.co.uk http://www.timesonline.co.uk Mon, 08 Feb 2010 04:22:50 GMT Newspapers 144 21 http://www.timesonline.co.uk http://images.thetimes.co.uk/TGD/picture/0,,116979,00.gif Rod Liddle Sun, 07 Feb 2010 00:01:00 GMT 2010-02-06T11:21:46Z So who should captain the England football team now that John Terry has been sacked? To be on the safe side you would immediately eliminate anyone from Chelsea, seeing that the list of club players who have at some point reportedly become acquainted with Vanessa Perroncel grows by the hour. Rod Liddle Sun, 31 Jan 2010 00:01:00 GMT 2010-01-30T09:40:25Z It is but a short, skag-addled, hop, skip and a jump from Holden Caulfield, the hero of J D Salinger’s only novel of note, The Catcher in the Rye, to Pete Doherty. Salinger died last week. Doherty, at time of writing, is still alive, although this column goes to bed quite early on a Saturday, so I have my fingers crossed here. Those around Doherty, meanwhile, are dropping like flies; attractive and possibly talented young people who embraced the sometimes sullen, sometimes exuberant naivety of Caulfield. Rod Liddle Sun, 24 Jan 2010 00:01:00 GMT 2010-01-23T09:50:34Z OMG, we’re about to be attacked by more of those weirdo Muslim suicide bombers, with their copious beards and dangerous flasks of hair dye! The valedictory video messages are being recorded right now — some embittered and inarticulate adolescents squatting beneath the green flag of Islam in some Keighley bedsit, telling us all why we have to die. What shall we do? Rod Liddle Sun, 17 Jan 2010 00:01:00 GMT 2010-01-16T10:16:25Z I was in the Socialist Workers party (SWP) as a kid, selling papers on a Saturday morning outside Binns department store in Middlesbrough town centre. “Neither Washington nor Moscow but international socialism!” I would bellow, and sometimes catch sight of my mum and dad doing the weekly shop and hiding from me in abject mortification.