I’ve been very lucky with teachers. Chris Brooks, who taught me about Blake and Dickens. Campbell MacKay, who taught me about Beckett and Stoppard. John O’Brien, who taught me that bizarre song, ‘The Bells of Hell Go Ting-a-ling-a-ling’. (He also taught me about the Congress of Vienna and the Spanish Civil War, but it’s the song that stuck.)

All long gone, of course. And a few days ago, another joined them when I learned that Professor Peter Thomson of the University of Exeter had died. He was a devotee of Brecht and Shakespeare, a mischievous iconoclast and a very kind man. I’ve read several heartfelt tributes already, from people who knew him far more deeply than I did, and there will be many more.

The thing is, he shouldn’t by rights have been my teacher, because he was in the drama department and I was doing single honours English. But I was lucky enough in my final year to get a place on an interdisciplinary course that he ran, although “interdisciplinary” barely covers the weird, wriggly beast. It was called The Secret Lives of the Victorians and combined elements of art, history, politics and psychoanalysis, with a dose of drama thrown in for fun. We looked at some of the odder figures of 19th-century Britain, such as the secularist-turned-Theosophist Annie Besant and the Bedlam artist Richard Dadd, and pondered the sexuality of the Marquess of Queensberry. The Pre-Raphaelites also featured heavily. I have vague memories of dressing up as Oscar Wilde and doing a ventriloquist act with a Margaret Thatcher (Victorian values!) squeaky dog toy. Peter had a healthy contempt for the Gradgrindian metrics of academic assessment and at the end he gave everyone exactly the same mark.

His course reinforced my instinct that context, especially social and historical context, is vital to understanding and fully appreciating any media and in retrospect had a big impact on much of my later work (especially the Radiohead book) and, more recently, my own teaching. I’d been in touch with Peter occasionally over the years, but now I really wish I’d told him how important his teaching was to me. So, next best thing, I’m telling you instead. But without the squeaky Margaret Thatcher.

Richard Dadd, Come Unto These Yellow Sands (1842)