Rod Liddle answers blogosphere critics

Liddle blames the Guardian for the onslaught of criticism he has faced online

Rod Liddle hit back at his critics in the blogosphere on BBC Radio 5 Live this morning.

In the wake of controversies over alleged racism, sexism and climate change denial, the news that the Spectator columnist could be the next editor of the Independent has had a mixed reception.

His diplomatic yet enthusiastic comments on the editorship will no doubt fuel speculation that he is the heir apparent:

Any journalist would want to be editor of the Independent. It's a brilliant newspaper and the chance to edit a paper which was mischievous, which supported social justice, which gave voice to a wide variety of diverse opinions and did investigative journalism and breaking news stories -- I think that would be a wonderful thing to do. The Independent has got an editor at the moment, and he's a very good bloke, Roger Alton.

Stressing that he doesn't know what will happen, Liddle admitted that "I've talked to a couple of people". He said that the Independent should remain left-leaning, which "fits in with what my politics have always been".

Many would not agree. Liddle downplayed the strength of reaction against some of his comments, saying that it has come almost entirely from the Guardian (including the Facebook group protesting against the prospect of him editing the Indie, which, he said, mainly consists of Guardian readers. The group has 4,500 members).

On the allegations of racism, he said:

I loathe racism, I always have done. It's not nice to be called a racist. There are plenty of reasons to have a go at me without having to invent stuff.

But beyond this apparently upfront, blunt acceptance of criticism, Liddle was not pinned down. His interviewer, Radio 5's Kate Silverton, quoted the notorious blog where he said:

The overwhelming majority of street crime, knife crime, gun crime, robbery and crimes of sexual violence in London is carried out by young men from the African-Caribbean community. Of course, in return, we have rap music [and] goat curry.

Asked what point he was making here, Liddle oddly claimed it was not a racial one:

The point I was making was that there are certain crimes that can be described not by race, but by culture, age and gender.

He argued that we should be able to discuss multiculturalism without slinging the term "racist" around. This is valid, but it does not seem to apply here.

On the controversy over his comments on the Millwall Online fan site, he said that the Guardian news desk had intentionally taken his words out of context. He added that these forums were "sort of semi-private", a comment likely to puzzle the blogosphere.

If Silverton's tone was sometimes uncomfortably chummy (as pointed out by indignant Twitterers this morning), some balance was provided by the very angry weatherman who took Liddle to task for his comments about the Met Office.

He finished his attack by saying: "If the Independent falls into your hands, then you'll need to up your game before I switch my allegiance."

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Samira Shackle is a freelance journalist, who tweets @samirashackle. She was formerly a staff writer for the New Statesman.

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The Tinder dating app isn't just about sex – it's about friendship, too. And sex

The lines between sex, love and friendship are blurrier than ever, as I found out quickly while using the app.

The first time I met someone using Tinder, the free dating app that requires users to swipe left for “no” and right for “yes” before enabling new “matches” to chat, it was an unqualified success. I should probably qualify that. I was newly single after five years in a committed relationship and wasn’t looking for anything more than fun, friendship and, well, who knows. A few weeks earlier I had tried to give my number to a girl in a cinema café in Brixton. I wrote it on a postcard I’d been using as a bookmark. She said she had a boyfriend, but wanted to keep the postcard. I had no date and I lost my page.

My Tinder date was a master’s student from Valencia called Anna (her name wasn’t really Anna, of course, I’m not a sociopath). When I arrived at the appointed meeting place, she told me I was far more handsome IRL (“in real life”) than my pictures suggested. I was flattered and full of praise for the directness of continental Europeans but also thought sadly to myself: “If only the same could be said about you.”

Anna and I became friends, at least for a while. The date wasn’t a success in the traditional sense of leading us into a contract based on exclusivity, an accumulating cache of resentments and a mortgage, but it had put me back in the game (an appropriate metaphor – people speak regularly of “playing” with the app).

According to Sean Rad, the co-founder who launched Tinder in late 2012, the service was invented for people like me. “It was really a way to overcome my own problems,” he told the editor of Cosmopolitan at an event in London last month. “It was weird to me, to start a conversation [with a stranger]. Once I had an introduction I was fine, but it’s that first step. It’s difficult for a lot of people.” After just one outing, I’d learned two fundamental lessons about the world of online dating: pretty much everyone has at least one decent picture of themselves, and meeting women using a so-called hook-up app is seldom straightforwardly about sex.

Although sometimes it is. My second Tinder date took place in Vienna. I met Louisa (ditto, name) outside some notable church or other one evening while visiting on holiday (Tinder tourism being, in my view, a far more compelling way to get to know a place than a cumbersome Lonely Planet guide). We drank cocktails by the Danube and rambled across the city before making the romantic decision to stay awake all night, as she had to leave early the next day to go hiking with friends. It was just like the Richard Linklater movie Before Sunrise – something I said out loud more than a few times as the Aperol Spritzes took their toll.

When we met up in London a few months later, Louisa and I decided to skip the second part of Linklater’s beautiful triptych and fast-track our relationship straight to the third, Before Midnight, which takes place 18 years after the protagonists’ first meet in Vienna, and have begun to discover that they hate each others’ guts.

Which is one of the many hazards of the swiping life: unlike with older, web-based platforms such as Match.com or OkCupid, which require a substantial written profile, Tinder users know relatively little about their prospective mates. All that’s necessary is a Facebook account and a single photograph. University, occupation, a short bio and mutual Facebook “likes” are optional (my bio is made up entirely of emojis: the pizza slice, the dancing lady, the stack of books).

Worse still, you will see people you know on Tinder – that includes colleagues, neighbours and exes – and they will see you. Far more people swipe out of boredom or curiosity than are ever likely to want to meet up, in part because swiping is so brain-corrosively addictive.

While the company is cagey about its user data, we know that Tinder has been downloaded over 100 million times and has produced upwards of 11 billion matches – though the number of people who have made contact will be far lower. It may sound like a lot but the Tinder user-base remains stuck at around the 50 million mark: a self-selecting coterie of mainly urban, reasonably affluent, generally white men and women, mostly aged between 18 and 34.

A new generation of apps – such as Hey! Vina and Skout – is seeking to capitalise on Tinder’s reputation as a portal for sleaze, a charge Sean Rad was keen to deny at the London event. Tinder is working on a new iteration, Tinder Social, for groups of friends who want to hang out with other groups on a night out, rather than dating. This makes sense for a relatively fresh business determined to keep on growing: more people are in relationships than out of them, after all.

After two years of using Tinder, off and on, last weekend I deleted the app. I had been visiting a friend in Sweden, and took it pretty badly when a Tinder date invited me to a terrible nightclub, only to take a few looks at me and bolt without even bothering to fabricate an excuse. But on the plane back to London the next day, a strange thing happened. Before takeoff, the woman sitting beside me started crying. I assumed something bad had happened but she explained that she was terrified of flying. Almost as terrified, it turned out, as I am. We wound up holding hands through a horrific patch of mid-air turbulence, exchanged anecdotes to distract ourselves and even, when we were safely in sight of the ground, a kiss.

She’s in my phone, but as a contact on Facebook rather than an avatar on a dating app. I’ll probably never see her again but who knows. People connect in strange new ways all the time. The lines between sex, love and friendship are blurrier than ever, but you can be sure that if you look closely at the lines, you’ll almost certainly notice the pixels.

Philip Maughan is Assistant Editor at the New Statesman.

This article first appeared in the 26 May 2016 issue of the New Statesman, The Brexit odd squad