Lunch will never be the same again. Keith Waterhouse, the prolific author, journalist and playwright who worked his way up from a Leeds council estate to become a Fleet Street legend when such an accolade still meant something, died yesterday aged 80.

Billy Liar, his first novel, made him famous; Jeffrey Bernard is Unwell, based on Bernard’s weekly Spectator column, was a huge success on the West End stage.

Waterhouse wrote about 60 books, plays and scripts for film and TV and was still writing his twice-weekly Daily Mail column when he turned 80 — although he would only ever work until lunchtime, at which point he would break off for a glass, usually rather more, of champagne. He listed his recreation in Who’s Who as “lunch”.

Yesterday the author and broadcaster Lord Bragg said: “Keith brought a lot of joy into the world. His novels were funny, accurate and are now part of our literary history. As a columnist he had an uncannily fine finger on the pulse and a wonderful wit. He enjoyed life uninhibitedly.”

He remained a Yorkshireman to the core. His friend the former People editor Bill Hagerty once asked him how he would like to be remembered. “There’s Arnold Bennett,” he said, “and J.B. Priestley . . . I hope to be considered to be just behind Priestley.”

After National Service in the RAF he landed a job as a reporter on the Yorkshire Evening Post, where he was remembered for his “flaming red unruly hair”. From there he went to the Daily Mirror, but novels soon followed. He left 10,000 words of Billy Liar in a taxi and had to start again. “The best thing that happened to me — it was pretentious twaddle,” he recalled.

Many of his works were collaborations with his friend Willis Hall, including the screenplays for films. He also wrote scripts for 1960s satire including That Was The Week That Was.

After he left the Mirror he was paid by its boss, Hugh Cudlipp, not to write for other papers. Later he started a column in the paper, but finally left when Robert Maxwell bought it. “I am rather in favour of larger-than-life newspaper bosses, but he was a bit too large.”

He took his column to the Mail, where he wrote for another 23 years. Yesterday Paul Dacre, Editor of the Daily Mail, said: “Keith was a genius: a consummate journalist, scintillating satirist and unrivalled chronicler of modern life. His characters became part of our national psyche. The pleasure he gave to millions was immense, and we thank him for every word.”

Friends remembered Waterhouse as the convivial lunchtime companion. “He was amazingly good company,” Hagerty said. “Lunch was not about food. He had a bird-like appetite and would push his food around the plate to convince the waiter he had eaten something. He was basically a drinking man and a raconteur.”

His party trick in the pub involved a tray, an egg, a matchbox sleeve and a pint glass of water, and required a sharp blow from a handheld shoe to land the egg in the water without breaking. Peter O’Toole had to master it for his performance in Jeffrey Bernard is Unwell. “The trick’s now an endangered species,” Waterhouse said once. “I tried to teach it to Jeff, but he was bloody hopeless at it.”

O’Toole said: “England’s writers team has lost its superb all-rounder. Novels, journalism, the language, plays, lunch. Keith was master of all.”

The Thoughts of Columnist Waterhouse

— Should not the Society of Indexers be know as Indexers, Society of, The?”

— Children should be “falling into ponds, eating poisonous berries, contracting stomach-ache from under-ripe stolen apples, getting lost, being bitten by dogs, fighting and starting fires, sitting in cowpats and acquiring bumps the size of a duck-egg on their heads”

— “I have strong opinions, at the moment of writing, on apostrophes, British Telecom, the Common Market, education, feminists, ghetto blasters, health freaks, inner cities, junk foodies, killjoys, leisure centres, militants, pubs, street theatre, town planners, vandalism, xenophobia, yellow lines — and zealots and doubtless by the time I’ve devoured the morning’s headlines along with the toast and marmalade I shall have taken on board enough rancorous nourishment to fill in the remaining blanks in today’s alphabet of spleen”

— “Counties lose their names, trains lose their livery, ginger snaps lose their flavour and mint humbugs their sharp corners, small shops close down, the village bus run is knocked off and there is no room service — all in the interest of rationalisation” —

— “Language affects values so much. Your vocabulary includes everything you want, cherish, own or aspire to. Language is a great liberator”

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