Today marks two years since the death of Jeremy Clark, one of the most loved columnists in the history of The Spectator.

As our former editor Fraser Nelson wrote, for 23 years his low-life column proved that any life, no matter how humble, can be riveting if the writing is good enough.

We have compiled a few of our favourite low-life columns

that were read aloud by Jeremy in 2016.

Low Life, the Spectator Columns of Jeremy Clark, read by Jeremy Clark.

Six for Sunday lunch. Me, my boy, my mother, my mother's boyfriend, Dr. Lovepants, my sister,

and this poised, well-groomed long-hahaired chap build as the new man in my sister's life.

Me and the boy are a bit late, and everyone else has started eating.

The new man in my sister's life's hair is receding at the front and long at the back, and he's got a pointy beard.

I'm dying to discomfort him with searching questions.

New men in my sister's life as a group are normally among the most unserious people in the world,

but this one looks like his treating the occasion with at least as much earnestness as my sister.

The mien is essentially polite.

The price tag on the bottle of French wine is bought says a whopping £7.50.

A man of immense intellect

and apparently no emotional intelligence whatsoever, Dr Lovepance has already launched into his

customary meal-time monologue. He's a compulsive talker and an ideal candidate, I tell him,

for the compulsive talk of self-help association on and on and on. His failing memory

means that sometimes we have to listen to a monologue that was broadcast earlier. He and my mother

have been visiting National Trust properties in Kent. At Chartwell they were shown around Churchill's

garden studio by an official guide who kindly shared his favourite Churchill anecdote.

It was a marvel, frankly, how the guide managed to get a word in edgeways.

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