Abstract
Political sketchwriting is sometimes thought to be the hardest of Fleet Street's circus turns. The sketchwriter is an unpredictable beast, sometimes indolent, often freelance, invariably edgy and just occasionally the worse for wear. He (a "she" is rare) exists in the no-man's land between comment and news, dependent on the patronage of distracted editors and the "co-operation" of subs who reckon they know a better use for the space. The material, moreover, is hardly that sexy.
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