Mark Liam Piggott

“On a grey January morning, at a small, sparsely attended ceremony in a chapel in North London, we said goodbye to my granddad, one more statistic in this vile pandemic. Jack Brown grew up in poverty in Ipswich and performed heroically in the Navy during world war two; twice-sunk, once by an enemy torpedo, once by a collision with an Allied boat (the family joke is that Uncle Albert from Only Fools was based on his experiences). He went on to father six children, and had a 40

“Three days into 2021, an aunt texts to inform that my grandfather has died. In November he was admitted to hospital after a fall at the London flat where he has lived alone since the death of my grandmother in 2008. Just before New Year’s Eve he was tested for Covid-19 then sent home, only to be urgently readmitted when the test came back positive. By then my aunt and her husband had been in contact and were urged to isolate, causing a huge knock-on effect for the family…” R

“In this, the strangest of years, I’ve even changed my Christmas song. Usually it’s Fairytale of New York on Boombox repeat; but this year it’s the Clash number, Should I Stay or Should I go? If I stay in London with my wife and children, there will be trouble in the form of my mum and dad, both in ill health in Yorkshire and desperate to see their grandchildren; if I go there will be double, in that our visit – potentially bearing gifts in the form of a new strain of Covid-1

“Were Millwall fans wrong to boo players who knelt in support of Black Lives Matter? Yes, according to the assembled pundits who are paid a fortune to talk about football…” Read the rest of my latest Spectator comment here.

Really excited to announce that two of my older poems are included in the new anthology published by the fantastic Enthusiastic Press. Particularly pleased to see that a poem I wrote at the age of 16 (“Together”) has finally found a home along with “In memory of Thomas Clarke”. Both are probably hopelessly out of their depth alongside some brilliant poems, short stories, and images by some of the UK’s finest creators. Enthusiastic Press is rapidly becoming one of the UK’s mos

“Scandalously, we never studied Ted Hughes at school. As the Poet Laureate is arguably the finest British poet of the 20th century this would be a scandal wherever I attended ('studied' would be pushing it) but I attended Calder High in Ted’s home town of Mytholmroyd. Though the grand total of my published poems stands at seven, we share connections, Ted and I. When my first novel was published — set in a fictionalised version of the Calder Valley — I was a guest of the Ted H

“My childhood in 1980s West Yorkshire wasn’t a clichéd mash-up of a Hovis commercial and Kes. For most of my youth we had an indoor toilet, for instance, and though we lived in a cramped terraced house it wasn’t a back-to-back – which meant we could hang our washing in the back alley rather than out front. I did conform to stereotype in one sense, though: until the age of 14 I was on free school meals…” Read the rest of my latest Spectator comment here.

“Shortly after booking a train ticket from London to West Yorkshire to accompany my mum to the doctor, I received a letter explaining that due to Covid-19 the appointment would now take place over the phone. Having booked the time off work, I decided to visit her anyway – despite the fact she and my dad, who separated 50 years ago, both still live in a small town surrounded by Covid-19 hotspots. Indeed, it was possible my visit would infringe the latest lockdown regulations,

“Our 16-year-old daughter brought home her first music video last week, and as my wife and I watched proudly on her iPhone, I felt like crying. A talented singer-songwriter, she was performing with a group of classmates in the studio of the London music college she chose to attend despite all her friends staying on in her old school sixth form…” Read the rest of my latest Telegraph column here.

“There’s a moment in David Mitchell and Robert Webb’s sublime “are we the baddies?” sketch where Mitchell begins to question why skulls feature prominently on the Nazi uniforms they wear. An expression of dawning realisation crosses Mitchell’s face as he worries: ‘Are we the baddies?’...” Read the rest of my latest Telegraph column.

“It was the Summer of ’86, and the call came in the middle of the night. The picket outside the South African embassy demanding the release of Nelson Mandela was under attack from National Front supporters. Could I pop down and defend the protesters from the fascists?” Read the rest of my latest Telegraph column on BLM, White Privilege and why I’d never “take the knee” on the Telegraph website here. (£)

“Fantastic news that the 75th anniversary of the end of hostilities in Europe will be a more sombre, sober affair this year due to our current mortal foe, coronavirus. Three days of celebrations had been planned, including processions, street parties and church services, almost all of which have had to be postponed. A good thing, too, according to the Guardian – because celebrating the end of war has become 'toxic' and 'divisive'. Whether seeing a bunch of old soldiers meetin

“On January 28, our cat Blitz was rescued from the Tube track at Tufnell Park station where he had been attacked by foxes and left for dead as 250 trains roared over his prone body. After 10 days in veterinary hospital, during which his nerve-damaged tail was removed, broken vertebrae sealed, and his exposed sciatic nerve patched up, Blitz was brought home – under strict instructions not to go outside. He was in lockdown and as a family we were traumatised – could 2020 get an

"Sometimes it feels like the pre-Covid-19 past isn’t a foreign country, but another world. Nevertheless, on hearing reports of police confiscating Easter Eggs, spying on ramblers and dumping dye in lakes, my mind drifted back to balmy 2019 and three separate incidents, all involving the police, all of which culminated in unsatisfactory outcomes – or rather, no outcomes at all…” Read my latest Telegraph column here (£)

“On the phone last week, my Mum said that she was thinking of going for a walk to the pub for lunch, ostensibly to take her mind off the remorseless hunger that has been an unexpected side effect of her Alzheimer’s…” My latest opinion piece in The Telegraph (£).

On Tuesday, 28th January, our cat Blitz had a miracle escape. Read all about it in today’s Sunday Express. And thanks, once again, to the staff at TFL and at the Royal Veterinary College!

“By now you’ll probably have seen the horrific images of Latin American children being tortured, gassed and shovelled into ovens by Border Patrol in Texas. I haven’t seen the videos yet, but they must exist, because I just saw this post by one Facebook user: “December 7, 1943 the reported number of prisoners at Auschwitz was 56,082. December 7, 2019 the number of JUST CHILDREN, not counting adults, in Trump’s migrant concentration camps is 69,550. Let that sink in.” Now, I’m

“News that Islington’s yummy mummies are up in arms about a proposed Ocado refuelling centre near a local primary school has caused much mirth and merriment in the media. How hypocritical, that the very people who use Ocado deliveries most – when not driving their 4WDs with Greenpeace bumper stickers to the Nags Head branch of Waitrose – should be jumping up and down in their ethically sourced hemp sandals at the possibility their little darlings might have to inhale the same

“Unlike some, I don’t blame the BBC, the press, Brexit or the thicko electorate for last Thursday’s wipe-out – I blame myself. Back in 2015, the night before voting closed in Labour’s leadership contest, I had a dream – that I needed to rediscover my socialist roots and vote for Jeremy Corbyn as leader. So I paid my £3, joined the party that my family helped set up, and put my faith in my constituency MP – one who I was convinced would reconnect Labour with its roots…” Read t

"When it comes to the special relationship between Great Britain and its troublesome ex-American colonies, talk of revolution is yet again all the rage. However, these new battles and cries for freedom are being fought at dinner tables and Twitter feeds on both sides of the Atlantic. And this time, we are mostly fighting amongst ourselves. And each outrage and counteraction borders more and more on the edge of one’s perception, and further and further from our true shared rea