“O, now, who will be the royal captain of this ruin’d band
Walking from watch to watch, from tent to tent,
Let him cry, Praise and glory on his head!
For forth he goes and visits all his host;
Bids them good-morrow with a modest smile,
And calls them brothers, friends and countrymen.”
– Henry V, act III, scene VI

“Mr Foot, you’re just one of those nasty little men that goes on and on, not interested in printing any facts, just interested in printing lies and innuendoes.” This is on the first page I randomly opened of his 1990 collection of articles, Words As Weapons, and it succinctly captures the essence of Paul’s journalism: the fear and loathing engendered in those he exposed, plus the undeniable fact that – rare in our short attention span, sensation-inclined profession – he would go on and on until that crook was exposed, a wrong righted, or an innocent man released from prison. The above correspondent, who threatened to sue, was Mr Patrick Doyle, the boss of a large cleaning group that had won many government contracts but whom Foot had exposed for arbitrary sackings and dodgy financial dealing. That was in 1983, two years before I joined Paul on his weekly investigative column at the Daily Mirror. In 1986, Paul was still writing about Mr Doyle’s shady business practices – by now, however, (as so often) the law had finally caught up with a Paul Foot campaign. Mr Doyle, once hailed as a hero of Thatcherite privatisation, was found guilty of forging cheques and sentenced to 15 months in prison – with, “in view of Mr Doyle’s past good behaviour”, nine months suspended. “Oh dear,” Foot concluded wryly. “Another learned judge who doesn’t read my column.”

This defiant doggedness and ferocious attention to detail, leavened by wit, led to many, many successes, acknowledged by the profession in a profusion of awards: Journalist of The Year (1972 and 1989), Campaigning Journalist of the Year (1980), The George Orwell Prize for Journalism (1984), and Journalist of the Decade (2000).

I worked with Footie, as he was known throughout journalism, for over a decade, first on his weekly investigative column at the Mirror, then as a colleague on Private Eye. It was the highlight of my newspaper life. Paul stood – stands – as a benchmark of honesty and rigour in journalism. He was also one of those rare people who, just by example and proximity, inspired colleagues to work harder, to a higher standard. And by his energy and optimism he made others feel ten feet tall.

Astonishing willpower

Re-reading Paul’s other writings now, the prodigious volume of his output, the depth of knowledge, the meticulous research and the breadth of his interests all astound. All are models for our craft, testimony that this supposedly ephemeral trade, when well-written and meaningful, can amount to more than wrapping for tomorrow’s fish and chips. The collection Words As Weapons ranges from explosive tabloid grenades to elegant essays for the London Review of Books. Yet all are linked by the same vitality and conviction that marked every word Paul Foot ever wrote. There are the coruscating pamphlets on Ireland and socialism. Then the books: The Politics of Harold Wilson (1968), Who Killed Hanratty? (1971), The Helen Smith Story (1983), the magnificent forensic investigation Murder at the Farm: Who Killed Carl Bridgewater? (1986), which led to the release in 1997 of three innocent men (the fourth died in prison), and the fearless Who Framed Colin Wallace? (1989).

This last book was pure Footie: out on a limb, vilified by other papers, derided by government ministers – and completely undaunted. Prime Minister Margaret Thatcher also ridiculed Colin Wallace, as a Walter Mitty figure. But Paul believed, rightly, that this was one of the most outrageous political scandals of our time. Slowly officialdom had to retreat, reluctantly conceding point by undeniable point. Even now this astonishing story has not been given its due: a military intelligence officer in Northern Ireland dismissed because he refused to take part in a dirty tricks campaign against the Harold Wilson Government, finally framed for a murder he did not commit. I have a yellowing cutting from 1996, seven years after Paul’s book came out, with the headline: “Victim of ‘Walter Mitty’ smear finally cleared of killing friend”.

This investigation showed why Footie was the greatest campaigning journalist of our time. Persistent and courageous, he was prepared to go it alone, sometimes against a baying pack, and to do so for years. Such hard work is not glamorous, and the clarity of his prose belies the volume of evidence he always marshalled. He was talented, he was brilliant, but so are many others. What made Paul Foot unique, I believe, were his political passion and his socialism. This suggestion often makes other journalists uncomfortable. (A sloppy Guardian headline after his death, “Socialism with a human face”, would have elicited amused scorn from Paul). Many have tried to make a distinction between the man and his politics. It is a fatal error. The man, the journalist, the politics were one: that was his voice, and why a much better Guardian headline read: “Electrifying and inspiring”.

If anyone doubts this, I urge him or her to read his great book, Red Shelley (1984), my personal favourite. “I share with Shelley a rotten education at University College, Oxford,” it begins, and proceeds to lay into all (including my own schoolteachers) who tried to justify Shelley’s poetic genius by eviscerating the politics. Paul was incandescent. “The castration is horrible,” he wrote. Shelley was a revolutionary. So was Paul. “In Shelley’s case, censorship of his ideas is more than insulting. It is totally destructive. For Shelley thought about politics intensely, all his life. His revolutionary ideas were the main inspiration for the bulk of his poems and essays.”

Paul might have been writing his own epitaph.

He did not only attack the powerful, corrupt and greedy, including bringing down the Tory home secretary Reginald Maudling, but he defended, encouraged and emboldened the underdog. There is much in his writing that is invigorating and exhilarating, even poetic, precisely because he was driven by a vision of a more generous and better world.

I remember trudging up on Monday mornings to our scruffy fourth floor offices at the old Mirror building at Holborn Circus, dreading the volume of correspondence, often whole trial transcripts. Wearily wondering where to begin, from the next room I’d soon hear an explosion of indignation. “This is outrageous – we must do something!” And within minutes I was hooked, fired up to investigate. Paul was incredibly funny, unhesitatingly generous, terrific company. With Clare Fermont, his partner and political soul mate, I remember one particularly wonderful day out: driving to Oxford to watch Footie’s team, Plymouth Argyll – Paul shouting encouragement to each player by first name – then on to Stratford-upon-Avon to see Coriolanus. Driving back in the early hours, Paul argued it was the best political play ever. He was the most stimulating person to discuss anything with – politics, soccer or Shakespeare – because he didn’t divide life into compartments.

He always listened, especially to the powerless. That’s why people trusted him, why he got so many scoops. Ordinary people wrote to him with the most extraordinary stories. Footie taught me so much. Here’s one tip, again from Words as Weapons, a tenet of his trade and, I think, worth passing on: “There’s only one thing worse than believing people who are telling lies, and that is not believing people who are telling the truth. Scepticism may be the reporter’s lifeline but cynicism is death.”

Paul Foot: passionate, living socialist, great journalist – a complete man.