HOW WE MET

ROBERT HARRIS AND JEREMY PAXMAN

Robert Harris, 38, worked at the BBC and then the Observer before writing the novel, Fatherland, which became a bestseller in 1992; he has just published a second novel, Enigma. He lives with his family in Berkshire.

Jeremy Paxman, 45, began his career as a journalist in Northern Ireland. He has been a Panorama reporter as well as a presenter on Newsnight and University Challenge. He lives near Henley-on-Thames with his family

ROBERT HARRIS: I first met Jeremy in 1979 at the BBC. I'd come straight from Cambridge, and I was the newest and rawest researcher for Panorama. Jeremy, who was a Panorama reporter, had the reputation of being terrifically war-zoney, tough and macho. He looked ready to go anywhere, do anything - plus he'd been on the IRA death list.

We couldn't have been more different. He was, and is, introverted; and I'm not. He was, and is, extremely smart, always beautifully turned out; and I've no dress sense at all. He was public school; I was Melton Mowbray comprehensive, thank God. But we got on.

We'd both been editor of the student paper at Cambridge, so in a sort of tribal way we'd followed the same route. Though I was noisy, obstreperous and generally difficult - or perhaps because I was - Jeremy cast a kindly eye on me and opened up opportunities. It could be that I reminded him of his younger self - I was 22 and he was nearly 30 when I arrived at the BBC - or perhaps we recognised each other as outsiders. We were both pretty angry - Jeremy because of the privileges he'd had; me because of the privileges I hadn't had.

Soon after, the first big break I ever got as a producer was when we went to Peshawar together, with the idea of going over the border to join the Afghan guerrillas - well, it was Jeremy's idea, not mine. When we arrived at the Peshawar Hilton and unpacked, it became quite clear that we were on different trips.

Jeremy's case was full of rough Arctic gear; I'd brought the equivalent of a dressing gown and a cuddly toy. Jeremy quickly realised that he'd come all the way to Peshawar with a man whose idea of hardship was not having a courtesy bowl of fruit in the hotel bedroom. We did not, subsequently, go over the Afghan border, but we stayed two weeks, and during that time we became friends.

Early on I discovered that you have to stand up to Jeremy. He loves to take the mickey; he's always asking my father for stories he can tease me with - like the football boots I got at the age of 11 that were never worn. In fact, he's the kindest of men. When I was beside myself in the middle of writing Enigma, he sent me a facsimilied original George Orwell, full of crossings-out and inserts, which was immensely cheering.

In the early Eighties we made a film for the BBC called If the Bomb Drops. We searched out every awful sequence we could find - hands sticking out under rubble, terrible moans, stricken scenes. When we came to show it to our producer, he said, "I hope this is nice and sober," and we chorused: "Yes, yes." It went out in the end, minus the gory bits.

During the Eighties, we didn't see so much of each other - I left the BBC to go to the Observer and Jeremy became a presenter. But we were always in touch, though he's rather solitary, one of those types who'd have been happy living on a remote hill station in colonial times.

He's not afraid of anything; not hierarchy, not his melancholia, which he fights steadily and grimly and eventually comes through and which, I hope, I help with by refusing to take him too seriously.

We both belong to that generation that's conscious of not having fought in a war, and the big question is: "How would I have done, and why didn't I have to do it?" Jeremy searches out war zones - or used to - and tests himself, or used to, and I in my books try to re-create that time. It's not guilt, more curiosity.

The paradox is that it is Jeremy, with his more contemplative and philosophical outlook, who ought to be writing books and I, who tend to take a lighter view, who should be doing Jeremy's job. In fact, I couldn't do it: I haven't the command, the confidence.

This year, we all went to France with our families. I handed Enigma in on 31 May and on 1 June we all met at Heath-row for a holiday in France, where I persuaded everyone to go to the best restaurants. Jeremy, whose idea of a great outing is a flask of cold water and a bit of dry bread, went along with it indulgently.

Jeremy is godfather to our daughter Holly, and an extremely good one he is - he remembers everything. Jeremy is the kind of friend I could ring up in the middle of the night if I were in trouble. I haven't done, but I know I could - he'd answer, and he'd listen.

JEREMY PAXMAN: Robert and I first met when he came to Panorama as a trainee or researcher or something - I forget what exactly. But we didn't really get to know each other until we were sent to the North-West Frontier together after the Russians invaded Afghanistan.

The editor of Panorama had got it into his head that we had to go into Afghan-istan with a Super 8 camera. When the producer who'd been assigned to this was told to go ahead, he dropped everything he was holding. He pleaded that he couldn't go - because he had to film a carol service in Glasgow - whereupon Robert stepped into the breach. So I went with Robert. I didn't realise what a chasm lay between us till we arrived on the North-West Frontier and I unpacked my bag, which contained a sleeping bag and boots and survival bag and that sort of thing. Then Robert unpacked his bag: out came pyjamas, a dressing-gown and a pair of rather nice embossed carpet slippers. We clearly had very different ideas of what this trip was going to be about. We stayed about two weeks in Peshawar, and under these extremely strange circumstances we got to know each other rather well.

The thing I liked about Robert in-stantly was that he has an instinctive desire to debunk, to stick pins in people, to deflate the pompous. I think the most demanding requirement with anyone who does this kind of journalism is that you must really, atavistically, want to cause trouble - Robert certainly does.

In spite of the shock of the carpet slippers, I had an immediate respect for him. He's very bright, very sophisticated intellectually and very quick, witty.

We recognised straight away that we were kindred spirits in that we were both working for a great organisation in many respects, but a very odd organisation in others, and that we just wanted to kick against the pricks all the time. We made a film together called If The Bomb Drops. We got hold of the most ludicrous bits of advice that would have been broadcast in the circumstances - like taking down your doors and leaning against the wall, and how you survive a nuclear blast. Then we went on to do a film about chemical warfare which led to our writing a book about chemical warfare together, called A Higher Form Of Killing.

There were a lot of remarkable things about him. Apart from his political sophistication and boldness, there was the way he dressed. He dressed like a person from Melton Mowbray: double-breasted blazer, corduroys and Kenneth Clarke suede shoes.

I don't think Robert would claim to be an intellectual - neither of us would - but he's got a witty, spiky turn of mind that makes him wonderful company. We go fishing together a lot - me with a few sandwiches in my pocket, him with his eye roving towards the nearest decent restaurant. He's terribly good socially, awfully good at parties, at doing a turn - all the things I shy away from.

When he was writing Enigma, his second novel, he seemed to be quite battened down. In the early stages, certain-ly, he was quite oppressed. Everyone is watching you after you've had a huge success like Fatherland, everyone is wondering - gleefully - if you're riding for a fall. But he didn't. He has the most amazing encyclopaedic knowledge of the Second World War. His line is: "Say what you like about Adolf Hitler, he's always been very good to me."

He's very driven, everything he's done he's done for himself. It took courage to leave the BBC for the Observer, it took courage to launch himself on a different career as novelist. Under that very laid- back exterior, he's very single-minded.

He could be in the Shadow Cabinet by now if he'd gone into politics. Mind you, if he had, I don't imagine that we'd still be the friends we are now. It would be a more distant relationship - the impossible thing about politics is the taking on board of the whole package, the professing to believe in things that you think are nonsense. It's a sad spectacle. 8