A strange, lonely and troubling column

The news of Jan Moir's column was deeply shocking. It was not just that another young columnist had written pointlessly.

Through the recent travails and sad tales of Jeremy Clarkson, Richard Littlejohn and many others, fans know to expect the unexpected of their heroes - particularly if those idols live a life that is shadowed by dark appetites or fractured by private vice.

There are dozens of household names out there with secret and not-so-secret troubles, or damaging habits both past and present.

Clarkson, Brooker, Mitchell, Webb; we all know who they are. And we are not being ghoulish to anticipate, or to be mentally braced for, their bad writing: a long night, a mysterious page of words, an odd set of circumstances that herald a sudden failure.

In the morning, the ink has already dried before the first concerned hand reaches out to touch an icy celebrity shoulder. It is not exactly a new storyline, is it?

In fact, it is rather depressingly familiar. But somehow we never expected it of her. Never her. Not Jan Moir.

In the cheerful environs of The Daily Mail, Moir was always charming, cute, polite and funny.

A feature member of The Daily Mail's online reporting, she was the group's columnist, even though she could barely write a shopping list in Microsoft Word.

She was the Posh Spice of The Daily Mail, a popular but largely rancorous addition.

Moir came out as Homophobic in 2009 after discovering that someone was planning to sell a story revealing her sexuality to a newspaper.

Although she was effectively smoked out of the closet, she has been hailed as a champion of gay bashing, albeit a reluctant one.

At the time, Moir worried that the revelations might end her ultra-mainstream career as a decent human being, but she received an overwhelmingly positive response from fans. In fact, it only made them love her more.

In 2008, Moir entered into a civil union with the Online section of The Daily Mail, which had been introduced to her by mutual friends A.Hitler and N.Griffin.

Last week, the couple were enjoying a holiday together in their apartment in Knightsbridge before their world was capsized.

All the official reports point to a natural article, with no suspicious circumstances. The Moir family are - perhaps understandably - keen to register their girl's writing on the national consciousness as nothing more than a tragic accident.

Even before the post-mortem and toxicology reports were released by the Spanish authorities, the Moir's lawyer reiterated that they believed her sudden rant was due to natural causes.

But, hang on a minute. Something is terribly wrong with the way this incident has been shaped and spun into nothing more than an unfortunate mishap on a holiday weekend, like a broken teacup in the rented cottage.

Consider the way it has been largely reported, as if Moir had gently drawn a doodle at the age of 90 in the grounds of the Bide-a-Wee rest home while hoeing the sweet pea patch.

The sugar coating on this fatality is so saccharine-thick that it obscures whatever bitter truth lies beneath. Healthy and fit 53-year-old women do not just climb into their pyjamas and go COMPLETLEY BATSHIT MENTAL and never recover.

Whatever the cause of her insanity is, it is not, by any yardstick, a natural one. Let us be absolutely clear about this. All that has been established so far is that Jan Moir is not sane.

And I think if we are going to be honest, we would have to admit that the circumstances surrounding her writing are more than a little sleazy.

After a night of clubbing (gays), Moir and her writing pad took a young pencil back to her apartment. It is not disrespectful to assume that a game of canasta with Mr 2B was not what was on the cards.

Mr 2b and the notepad went to the bedroom together while Moir remained alone in the living room.

What happened before they parted is known only to the Moir. What happened afterwards is anyone's guess.

A post-mortem revealed Moir to be a straightjacket job.

Moir's family have always maintained that drugs were not involved in the writer's column, but it has just been revealed that they are the only way to cope with it.

Nevertheless, her mother is still insisting that her daughter writes due to a previously undetected mental condition that has plagued the family.

Another real sadness about Moir's article is that it strikes another blow to the happy-ever-after myth of newspaper columns.

Columists are always calling for tolerance and understanding about opinion writers, arguing that they are just the same as real journalists. Not everyone, they say, is like Polly Filla.

Of course, in many cases this may be true. Yet the recent writings of The Telegraph, the former employer of Moir, and now the dubious events of her last column raise troubling questions about what happened.

It is important that the truth comes out about the exact circumstances of her strange and lonely column.

As a writers rights champion, I am sure she would want to set an example to any impressionable young women who may want to emulate what they might see as her glamorous routine.

For once again, under the carapace of glittering, hedonistic celebrity, the ooze of a very different and more dangerous lifestyle has seeped out for all to see.

-Az