Bernard Levin was the most famous journalist of his day. Prolific, controversial, passionate, versatile, maddening, enthusiastic, sometimes irresponsible, always courageous, he was recognised instantly in the street by people of all ages.

This was no mean achievement, since for more than 25 years he had been primarily identified not with any mass market tabloid, but with a single broadsheet newspaper.

It was in January 1971 that Bernard Levin's byline started appearing regularly in The Times. Through radio and television he was already a public figure. The previous year he had published his first book, The Pendulum Years, a commentary on Britain in the 1960s.

He had also, since 1962, been writing regularly for Lord Rothermere's Daily Mail, contributing latterly five 600-word columns a week as well as acting as the paper's theatre critic. But he had had a disagreement at Associated Newspapers and — renowned for the fluency and pungency of his writing — was known to be on the market.

Both The Guardian and The Times made bids for him, and Levin opted for the latter, despite having previously enjoyed a stint on The Guardian as a lively weekly columnist writing about the early days of commercial television.

The reason he gave for choosing The Times was that he thought it would be advantageous to "write against the grain" of the paper. But this was probably only half the truth, for Levin had long since abandoned the firebrand socialism of his youth, and in due course he was thought by many to be the grain of the paper. Money may have been a more powerful inducement. Then in his early forties, he had already become accustomed to a lifestyle that included the better class of restaurant, with wine to match.

The Times was pleased with its capture. Levin was "savage, clever, cunning, witty and brilliant" according to the front-page announcement of his arrival — strong words in those days.

He declined any formal letter of engagement, instead drawing up his own contract, the most important clause of which demanded that his copy should not be altered except with his personal consent. He had never got on well with sub-editors.

Orders went out for him to be given appropriately stylish accommodation at Printing House Square, but Levin took one look at it and decided to set up his stall in the anteroom to the Editor's office. (He spurned the two perks of most ambitious journalists, a company car and a private room. He did not drive and he disliked office seclusion.)

The move proved a typically shrewd one. It put him right at the centre of things, and gave him immediate access to the Editor. When The Times moved to new premises in the Gray's Inn Road shortly afterwards, he insisted on the same arrangement.

There were also personal advantages. Despite a number of female liaisons, some of which were much publicised, Levin remained a bachelor. But he liked to be cossetted. This he was, by a gaggle of secretaries including the Editor's as well as his own. Levin responded to all the kindnesses shown.

Birthdays and high days were celebrated with sumptuous cakes, and Levin ran the secretaries' pools syndicate. Later he would struggle into the office each Christmas bearing bottles of excellent champagne, one for every individual who had anything to do with his copy at any stage.

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