By ARCHIE BLAND
Richard Littlejohn is a journalist and occasional writer of fiction, apparently spends quite a lot of his time in Florida, gets paid in the region of £800,000 a year and, to judge by the byline picture I’m squinting at, is a bit fat. There are some descriptive conclusions that we could draw from these points; I’m not going to say they’re “facts” because I haven’t bothered to check them, but they’ll do for the sake of this column that I’m trotting out without thinking about it too hard.
A hack, for example! A morally dishonest member of a discredited profession who produces his predictable think pieces between restaurant courses. A novelist, too, sort of, by which I mean a scruffy scribbler, hidden away in his garret, chewing on his pencils and simpering to himself every time he comes up with another overworked metaphor. A millionaire who spends…
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