Adrian Anthony Gill, one of the finest writers of this or any generation, has died just a few weeks after making public his recent cancer diagnosis. Food critic, cultural commentator and wit, he has simply been the first columnist to whose writing I have turned every Sunday for the past two decades despite some editorial directions of The Sunday Times: nobody could compare with him for his insightful, hilarious and fair analysis of film, TV or food. His humour and his sense of proportion have been a desperately needed buoy in an era of sickeningly stifling political correctness, ludicrous identity politics and objectionable levels of self-pity. He announced his illness with typical aplomb in a restaurant review. This is devastating and sad. On a purely selfish level, Sundays will never be the same again. Rest in peace.