Very sad news: Bernard Levin is dead. When I was at school, I used to hang on his every word. It wasn't just the subjects he chose, it was the sheer flair in his writing. I can't think of anyone today who comes close. I remember especially one hilarious essay about travelling through Italy using only operatic Italian. He could do anything, from the most serious and important subjects to the most ephemeral and flippant. And his musical tastes were, simply, spot on.

In recent years I would see him sometimes walking in the street (my flat is very near where he lived) and it was a truly sad sight. Can there be a crueller disease than Alzheimer's - especially for someone whose life was defined by his mind?

Unlike most of my fellow hacks' fish and chip paper produce, Levin's writing will be read for years to come. Here's the link to his page on Amazon. If you haven't read any of his collections, treat yourself.

UPDATE: Oliver Kamm's brief appreciation hits the mark.