They have appealed to 'the faithful' to help bale them out of a £15m overdraft, but omitted to say they already some £200m in off-shore accounts. (Story this edition). And for nearly three months now the CCO has dedicated almost its entire research department into finding out how they can put us out of business. Through the most covert means imaginable they have even found, and threatened, individual shops which stock us.
Hot on their heels came the News of the World, who took great exception to our publishing the revelations of runaway rat Ian Cutler. The news desk has been devoted for some time now in tracking down our distributors and suppliers.
All this on top of a disarming onslaught from the Police Federation.
Those three really ARE what you might describe as an unholy alliance. But none of them, of course, are coming for us direct. They are going for all the "soft targets" like printers, distributors and wholesalers in the hope that we won't get on the streets. This, of course, with WH Smith and Menzies already trying to throttle us, is bad news. In fact, we may only be able to survive from subscription or if we publish on the Internet.
Whatever, publish we shall. And may us all be damned.
With best wishes,
Simon Regan
I have long since ignored birthdays. Your own loses all charm after 40, and trying to remember others' is an annual bore. I gave up weddings and funerals ages ago, although I am still happy to attend the divorce or bankruptcy parties of close friends. I suppose I shall have to break my rules if Mariella Frostrup pops the question, but then at least close friends can attend my divorce party shortly afterwards. Mariella earns infinitely more than I, so it will be most convenient to retire on the alimony.
Having spent a turbulent youth tearing up Hampstead Heath as the original urban scallywag, and while TV itself was a big black box with a six inch flickering screen only to be found in one per cent of the British households, there was one magical haven, attending which was the ultimate treat. There in the Hampstead Playhouse, where you ALWAYS queued, even for the one and nines, you could sink back and envelop yourself in the magical fantasy of the screen. From Singing in the Rain to the Crimson Pirate or the Third Man. There was a lot of Hollywood hype, of course, but forgive me if I suggest that the Lancasters, Flynnes, Gables, Hepburns, Gardners, Davis's, Garlands... and, oh, so many more .... were REAL stars. I therefor watch with complete dismay, disillusionment, and some disgust, when I find out the Costners, Stallones, Murphys, and Swartzneggers, are all vying to be history's most highly paid superstars at an average purse per film of around $16 million, then a substantial cut on top.
Kevin Costner who squeaks like a Mid-western fairy on heat, and picks and farts his way through other people's brilliant scripts and direction, and then allows his avaricious agent to claim all credit for the success of his films; the ghastly mumbling, groaning, inarticulate hulk of gibberish called Stallone, mutant half-brother of the other obscene beefburger called Swartzenegger who has no talent at all outside his private gymnasium; and lastly the wholly odious, foul-mouthed, cretinous, squeaking baboon called Eddie Murphy who is only vaguely articulate when praying to God to thank Him for his "God-given talent".These, they tell me, regularly earn for their insidious flauntings, more that the lifetime's income of my old childhood heroes. They, like Christmas, are all to be studiously ignored from henceforth.
Because you, wall, have heard everything before ranging from the brilliant to the ludicrous. You've seen them all come and go for the past 180 years, some of them to the depths of depravity, others to the heights of it in such places as Her Majesty's government. You must know there can be very little argument about whether we are all different or not, but whether we want to be, or strive to be, and how hard we will then work to be so.
You are, of course, male. You may groan or even creak a bit from old age - as stones do. But I warrant you've never nagged anyone or even squeaked at them as a women would. I will also warrant that despite the rogues and rascals, all the brilliant oratory and boring rhetoric, despite centuries of hot air and hypocrisy, you have never had to entertain a common and garden tinker like me. For that, old chap, is what a Scallywag is.
The very word 'different' can be apocryphal, unless you listen to the monstrous regiments of the so called Politically Correct, who deny that there is even a difference between the sexes. Forget words like establishment, conformity and tradition, for even within their limited boundaries, there have been scatterings of real eccentrics.
Look around you now, wall, to the sight of which you must be so very familiar. All dressed up to the nines in impossible archaic costumes trying very hard to be different to the masses. And, of course, they are. I doubt whether 0.5 per cent of the country knows what a white tie looks like outside a Rex Harrison film. Half of one percent by definition makes them 'different'. But what do 'different' people do as soon as they have declared themselves to be so very different. They collect together in a herd and all act exactly the same as each other.
There is nothing unique in the herding instinct of oddities. One of the most exclusive clubs in London is the Eccentrics Club to which you may only be invited if you have lived a life of complete outrage. The New Age travellers have declared themselves outside society yet herd together for a common identity. Even the best of the 18th Century rakes collected together in the hellfire club so they could shock each other with profanities. Yet, old chap, I'll bet you your ageing plaster that you've never heard of a herd of tinkers. Tinkers are loners who live outside society on their own, using nothing but wits and ingenuity to survive in an often hostile world. The name Scallywag originated during the American Civil War to describe the individuals who rode on the backs of advancing or retreating armies, stealing what they could; with no allegiance to either side; shodding horses, cleaning general's medals for them, doing any old odd job, legal or otherwise. They were tinkers of the old Irish school and apart from the armaments industry were probably the only men who profited from that ghastly of wars.
I first came across the word tinker when I was four years old watching the pantomime Peter Pan. Tinker Bell was a wandering spirit and I remember it so well. Her tiny light began to fade and Wendy came to the front of the stage and told the children, "Tinker bell is dying. The only way in which you can save her life is to shout: 'I believe in fairies' ". And how we screamed, and screamed until the little light sparkled again. Can you imagine what would happen nowadays if children were taught to scream; "I BELIEVE IN FAIRIES"?
Which, of course, brings us, old wall, neatly to a subject which must be making you heave to your crumbling grave. The cancer and insidious rampant destruction now let loose under the silly name of political correctness. In American it has run riot. During the Christmas period this year the only visible display allowed in any public building, including all the post offices, is some obscure cult called Kwanza which, of course, is dedicated to the well-being of ethnic females. You won't find a Madonna and Child in any public place because they say, for reasons I simply cannot understand, it might offend people.
I note with horror that the official curriculum in history throughout the entire education system has eliminated Shakespeare and Churchill who now officially never existed. They have given some passing reference to Washington and Lincoln, but reserved most space - some ten pages - to an unknown black heroine of the Civil War who emancipated various slaves. I'm very glad indeed and this brave lady deserves a place in the history books, but she occupied less than a second in the history of humanity. While a millennium of European history - from whence the basis of American society was born - is dealt with as an aside.
You see, the real dangers of PC is that it tries to eliminate the obvious differences between us as human beings. We may no longer be fat, thin, large or small, pink or blue, nor even male or female. In the eye of the beholder we must merely be grey persons. We are not allowed to recognise that a Mongolian, one-legged, sex mad, schizoid, dwarf, slightly balding, walking on its hands, maybe a trifle different to its neighbour. Yet really we should be cherishing a person with such diverse talents. It is their very uniqueness which makes them so fascinating. Their DIFFERENCE which is so important.
I truly believe that is why Scallywag the magazine should have been born. We are different. Poor Private Eye which first came to prominence because it was different to Punch is now what Punch was when they took over. They can even get into WH Smiths. Well, we can't and we can't for one reason only. We have no money and no assets, so it is not worth suing us.
Smith's hold the absolute monopoly on the wholesale trade in most university towns, including Cambridge. What they do or do not decide to allow you to read is determined by a small posse of rigid puritans in the desultory railway town of Swindon. If they don't approve of it, you don't get to read it.
Because we are so manifestly broke we have been able to successfully ride, or rather storm, across the present archaic libel laws. We've cocked a snoop at them. I have personally insulted Carter Ruck and George Carmen hoping to infuriate them into persuading someone to sue us. But they will not. Even though we have wilfully defamed several former members of the notorious Peterhouse set of political perverts who, twenty years ago in this very town, hatched the plot which is now so dominating the woes of the Major administration. Any other British journal which had so poignantly made such lurid accusations would by now be sinking to bankruptcy in a stormy sea of writs.
We have said, "we'll say what we like and to hell with the lawyers," and quite honestly, they have no idea how to deal with us. Down the road, poor old Sloppy at the Eye is groaning under 30 separate writs because the lawyers know they have a million in the bank. We, of course, only came to prominence when we accused the prime minister of having some curious midnight feasts, and he made a futile attempt to get us to retract. But even the power of the government, the civil service, and the law, could not prevent us surviving and poor Major's lawyers, realising we would go all the way, shrank back in a most cowardly fashion in the very corridors of the High Court.
Scallywag set out quite determinedly to not join the media herds. As such every single club or institution has been closed to membership with the exception of the Melcome Regis Working Man's club where even tinkers are welcome. Yet curiously many doors have been opened to Scallywag which were never opened to Simon Regan. I have very recently spoken or had meetings in the Reform Club, the Garrick, Parliament, The Albany, several Mayfair salons, and even the Cambridge Union.
So I propose, old wall, that not only is it entirely desirable to be different, but absolutely essential to remain so before the monstrous regiments imprison us in a deserted island of book burning and eternal greyness. Stalin and Mao tried it by mass murdering individuality. So did Hitler, and most other tyrants. Yet, in the end, despite almost endless and unconquerable opposition, individuality - the constant human need to be different, has always pulled through, and I suggest, old wall, it will tonight.
So, Happy Kwanza, and let's all believe in fairies.
In the most Draconian campaign of intimidation since Goldsmith Vs Private Eye, Lewis has personally threatened every wholesaler in Britain who supports Scallywag with litigation. He has even attacked many individual newsagents and book shops. Some have received visits from Young Conservative bully boys who use legal menaces like the Kray Twins used a cudgel. "If you put Scallywag out on the streets, we'll break your legs". A somewhat colourful metaphor granted, but nonetheless, an accurate one.
It would appear to be an idle threat. Despite all the sound and bluster from Lewis, no writ has been issued. But he has succeeded in frightening off every innocent news trader who once stocked Scallywag. Thousands of copies rot in warehouses all over the country, and every wholesaler has vowed never to distribute Scallywag again. A small fortune in revenue from previous editions has been frozen in the pipeline, leaving the magazine entirely incapacitated. Within 48 hours, the bank foreclosed, every issue was withdrawn throughout the country, the office was taken back by the landlord, telephone conversations were interrupted by phantom operators which according to BT did not exist, panicked letters flooded in from wholesalers cancelling future orders and a destitute Scallywag staff was forced to salvage whatever production equipment they could and take flight. Conservative Central Office may have put us temporarily out of business, but the fight is not over yet.
We have issued writs for Malicious Falsehood against Dr Julian Lewis and the Prime Minister, who presumably countenances the actions of his minion. It is impossible to sue the Party, which does not legally exist. The Party itself is unaccountable. But the individuals involved are not. They will answer to the public, even if it has to be in front of a High Court Jury.
This kind of conflict does tend to tax one's resolve. Gone are those cavalier days when a skeleton Scallywag staff would take precocious delight in provoking the titanic wrath of the establishment. Back then it seemed as though we had embarked on a glamorous adventure and we relished the apparent fact that a few literary guttersnipes of dubious reputation or no reputation at all could succeed in embarrassing the Prime Minister, outraging his supporters and sending a tremor throughout the monolithic institutions of this country. But, of late, this Boy's Own escapade has descended into vicious trench warfare and perhaps, for the first time, we have reason to realise how poorly equipped we are to fight such a lengthy and arduous campaign. Now it is no fun at all.
No complaints. It was the height of naiveté to presume that to invite this relentless onslaught from the establishment could be fun. A flimsy, impish pamphlet like Scallywag can't harangue the Furher and not expect to be trampled under a stormtrooper's boot. But as our resources have become dangerously depleted our determination has grown to expose the rusty, oppressive machinery of the state for what it is: corrupt and self perpetuating in its lies and institutional inhumanities. And to oppose a government which has proven to be prurient, corpulent and incompetent wherever and however we can.
Consequently, the political Party which promotes the free market as one of its founding principals has barred Scallywag from competing in the market. The Party which advocated the reform of the libel laws uses these laws to brazenly intimidate those wholesalers, newsagents, printers and distributors who have backed the magazine.
While we have always been banned from 70% of the country due to an enduring embargo from the combined monopoly of WH Smith and Menzies, any attack on Scallywag's minimal distribution can inflict mortal wounds. Not surprisingly the boards of these two powerful companies are comprised of mainly die-hard Tories who have about as much regard for a free press as their Stalinist counterparts in Smith Square. Crushed between their grip on the nation's news trade and the CCO's virtually unlimited wealth, Scallywag is a mere fleck of dust.
While factions of the media scoff that such a reputably scurrilous, irresponsible publication deserves all it gets, they are somehow missing the point. No publication, however contentious, deserves to be censored. And no business, however small, deserves to be destroyed by political or commercial colossi. The issue of censorship should always be in the foreground of the media's consciousness and the press must remain ever vigilant, whatever their political hue, when attempts are made to curtail basic freedom of information in this country. They should be left in no doubt that the ideological terrorists in the CRD view fundamental human freedoms as, at best, an inconvenience and, at worst, a threat to their quangos and unelected elites. Scallywag is at the front line in publishing. Okay, we don't always get it right, but other newspapers with much greater resources sometimes get it wrong too. We are, nevertheless, a litmus test that often reveals the true intentions of those who rule over us. It is easy to feel a false sense of security in the plush newsrooms of Wapping. But if we allow extraneous publishing to be censored, the middle ground will be next.
It, therefore, leaves us incredulous that even the liberal intelligentsia who pick at polite morsels of pseudo radicalism during so many plump literary lunches, do not acknowledge the imminent danger from those who wish to edit what they are allowed to read, hear or see. It appears people will march for veal, but not to defend indispensable democratic rights and liberties.
Whatever you may think of Scallywag, this is not only our fight. If you value freedom of speech, it is your fight too.
Especially as the now notorious arms deals with the Saudis, with which the Thatcher family were so deeply implicated (financially and politically), are likely to bring in a full billion dollars before the end of the century. Another thing. How come Thatcher was so vigorous in suggesting the Bosnians should be armed. Could it have anything to do with the fact that Mark's old friends are keen to continue shipping such lucrative cargoes?
George Carman is very well aware of his high profile and entertainment value. He does not so much play to the gallery as seduce it, as he is often so wont to do with juries. His very gentlemanlinnes is complete disarming and it is when he is being so genial and polite that you must fear him most. For he is a past master at luring you into a false sense of security.
I attended on several days the recent Anglesea libel trial before Justice Drake in the famous libel court, number thirteen at the High Court. I resolved after witnessing a typical Carman cross-examination - of Anglesea himself - that if ever I found myself in the same witness box being addressed by the old fox, I would tell the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth, so help me God, however much damage it might do me. For if Carman knows you are lying he will relentlessly first trap you and then expertly hang you in the web of your own lies.
Angelsea had told the court he had only visited the children's home, Bryn Estyn, where various allegations had been made by former inmates, about "two or three times" on semi-official social occasions like Christmas parties. "Quite so," said Mr. Carman.
If Mr. Carman uses the phrases "quite so" or "I see" or, in particular, "you're sure about that?" his next fox's gambit will be to show you have just lied.
"Mr. Angesea," he told the confident former policeman. "I hand you your own notebook for the Christmas period l993- 4. Do you recognise it?"And so it went on, page after relentless page, as Gordon Anglesea's voice first quavered and then got more and more high pitched. And then statements he had made to his solicitors in answer to the Observer's solicitors in which he had stressed that he was "absolutely sure" he had only visited Bryn Estyn "two or three times". To concrete the point the Observer had repeated the question and got the same reply."Yes, sir."
"Would you please turn to the entry for November 7th? Found it? Good. Could you please read to the court what it says?"
"Caution, Bryn Estyn."
"Yes. Could you please turn to the entry on 15th November? What does it say?"
"Caution, Bryn Estyn."
"And this," said Mr. Carman. "Is only one notebook out of many. It does tend to confirm, Mr. Anglesea, that you visited the home rather more than three times does it not?"After the calm trap comes the hammering. Carman will pick on something seemingly unimportant. In this case police procedure on issuing cautions (they are normally given in the police station on the orders of a senior policeman and they are witnessed and a proper record is taken)."Yes...well...what I mean is....."
"What do you mean Mr. Anglesea?"
"Eh...well."
"Quite so."
"Was it customary to caution at Bryn Estyn rather than the police station?"By this time the witness had got very red faced, was stumbling, holding the rail tight, and his voice had gone up to a falsetto."Yes, quite normal."
"I see. Can you name any other policeman during this period who gave a caution at Bryn Estyn?"
"Yes, several."
"I see. Name one."
"Well, I was certainly aware of one other officer doing it."
"How do you know?"
"He told me."
"When did he tell you and who was it."
"I can't recall his name but he told me by letter."
"Where's the letter?"
"Well..... I'll have to look for it. I don't know where it is right now. But I remember seeing it."
"At the end of the day Mr. Anglesea, you know of one other time in which an officer actually gave a caution at Bryn Estyn. But you can't recall who it was or when he told you?"
This patent dismantling had all been done with the greatest of menacing politeness, as if they were standing at the bar in the village local. The significance of what Mr. Anglesea said was not lost on the jury.
Watching Carman from behind, his slightly hunched back ready to pounce, you realise he really enjoys what he does and is a pat- master at it.
After a few days of this I can assure him that if and when he meet on opposing sides I shall tell him the exact truth. But if he does ever say to me, "quite so" I shall know I've got something wrong.
I remember the moment well. It was late August, 1968, and the Russians had invaded Czechoslovakia. Every border had been sealed by a massive Soviet military clamping machine which had become barbaric in its intensity of atrocity. No Western journalists could get in. What was happening in Prague remained completely unreported. If anyone WAS in there, they could not file their stories. If anyone DID get in, they had to get out again. Every newspaper in the Western World wanted to give it a try and every last maverick journalist with an armpit full of ambition wanted to be the first to put his name under the Prague dateline. That, quite manifestly, included me.
I had found out a highly clandestine and obviously dangerous way of crossing the border through Poland and I put the idea to Mike Gabbert, then feature's editor, but also editor-designate under the championship of the old rascal and rogue, Stafford Sommerfield. Probably the last "Great" Fleet Street editor.
Stafford was an enigmatic personality who wore outrageous clothes, snapped his braces with licentious naked women on them, and, before taking over the mantle on a Saturday, would breakfast on eggs and bacon and a pint of Pimms at the Savoy with any unscrupulous rogue he could find. Often roaring drunk he would take over the 'back bench' (the nerve centre of newspaper production) and, almost on deadline, would re-write the whole newspaper with a verve and tenacity that left its mark on two decades of faithful readers.
The moment I remember most was on the day my idea was tentatively accepted and Gabbert took me to Simpson's in the Strand for a traditional roast beef lunch. He gave me an envelope with a hundred pounds in it - all in new fivers. "Stafford likes the idea," he told me when tipping the meat waiter a half crown. "But there is one small condition."
"There always is with you, Michael," I said. "What is it this time?"
I truly thought that it would be a pay-off. Gabbert always took his cut from anything he had 'arranged' for me. But it was not. "Sir William Carr, (The Chairman at the time)," he said, "is terrified of the commies and he thinks you might get into trouble. He's taken this money out of the fridge, so it's not recorded in any way. What I've got to tell you, old chap, is that you are on your own. Completely. If the Ruskies get you we'll disown you entirely. You won't exist. No one's paid you nothing. We don't even know who you are. If you say you're working for us, we'll call you a liar. I think it's because Carr plays golf with someone at the Foreign Office. Could be dodgy to his handicap if he doesn't tell them you're going in in the way you've described.
"No doubt," Gabbert confirmed as the beef waiter topped up his plate, "if you get out alive, the old man will take you to breakfast at the Savoy. Do you drink Pimms?"
Frankly, I didn't give a damn. I had the early itchiness of an ambitious reporter and I wanted to see action. I had been 'blooded' the year before in the Middle East and military action somehow had got my adrenaline going. The airline ticket in my pocket and the envelope of fivers was burning a hole and I wanted to get to the airport. Only later did I think they might have been the tiniest bit more generous, even in l968.
Anyway, we ate up and Gabbert, uncommonly generously (but it was, after all, on expenses), bought me a large brandy before we got out into the Strand to go our separate ways.
It was a steaming hot day and Gabbert was wholly obese. I was going to hail a cab for Heathrow and he was sweating profusely. "Can you drop me off?" he asked. "You're going to Prague, and I'm going for a fuck in Kensington. It's almost on the way."
Needless to say, I did. And picked up the fare.
Well, I got to Czechoslovakia, and very nearly to Prague, but I was waylaid on the way by a posse of Pushkins whose only word was "niet". At one stage, surrounded by a mob of tricky-happy recruits from the hinterlands of some obscure Soviet village - in a waiting room in a station some half an hour from the capitol - I thought I was for the firing squad and was actually charged with being a spy in some ludicrous Kangaroo court.
The most peculiar thing was that, at the time I was in the most danger, I kept thinking over and over, "I wonder how Gabbert's fuck went." To this day, I have no idea why. I did get away and eventually home to London where I filed my story to an excited Sommerfield who re-wrote it himself and then said, "well, young man, I think you're due for a late breakfast." So we went to the Savoy as the front page rolled.
The point of this lengthy preamble is to try and illustrate that sexually, little has changed in that organ, even after the austerity of both Murdoch and Wapping. They're still at it with a vengeance and always were. I suppose it would be true of almost any office in terms of internal bonking.
The difference was that at the NoW we were constantly exposed to the sleaziest influences, and most people cheated and succumbed to them. No one was an angel. Least of all Gabbert who, despite all my genuine fond memories of him, was singly one of the kinkiest people I have ever met and who would stop at quite literally nothing to satisfy his libido in whatever way was going at the time.
Despite my knowledge of this, and of almost everything that was going on at the time, I feel personally stunned at Cutler's reports. I knew almost everyone he is talking about, some of them very well indeed. Ray Chapman, for example,who figures most prominently in this expose, was once put under my "care" by Gabbert to teach him the ropes. I had no idea at the time that he had come on board because he was actually procuring for my mentor. I would have laughed if I had known, but I didn't.
At the time, he was merely a whipper-snapper and keen-eyed opportunist who admitted early on that he was a complete rogue. He was also an excellent leg-man with some considerable talent for digging up the relevant stuff. He was, above all, hungry.He also told me at a very early stage, over a pint in the Printer's Pie, that he had a murky past. But so what? We dealt regularly in the gutter. If he could get the information, why not take him on board?
But I honestly did not know the extent of the clandestine sexual activities which were going on in the office itself.
Under Carr the NoW had been (their own words) "As British as roast beef and Yorkshire pudding" and "the forces' newspaper". When Maxwell was thwarted it was simply because Carr considered him to be a "dirty little foreign Jew". Murdoch, on the other hand, came from good Scottish stock and his father had been the doyen of the Australian press. Anything but a wog. On top of this we handed out morality on a weekly basis like it was streamers on New Year's Eve.
Conmen got an easy time compared to perverts. But when Rupert took over we started on what I considered to be unfair game - the girls themselves (rather than the pimps); wife swappers; massage parlours; ordinary people who advertised for "like- minded" kinks in sordid Soho magazines, and so on. Largely innocents doing their own thing between consenting adults.
Why persecute them for the sake of a few cheap thrills? Well, we did. But what was so completely hypocritical about that was that the members of the NoW staff themselves, even while taking on such a high-minded attitude, were all at it themselves.
Not just on the sex stakes. Gabbert himself employed me to expose various drug situations and then asked me to get a supply for himself. He constantly took a cut from series he had commissioned. Sommerfield had booked a permanent suite at the Strand Palace hotel which was meant to be used for "interviews" but was available to any staffer who wanted a spare bonk - including himself. Very few reporters ever left a massage parlour without being massaged themselves. During one particular investigation into kinky saunas I doubt whether anyone in the world was cleaner than the hard-core team of NoW investigative reporters. All, of course, on expenses.
Yet only a few years before these funny old days the famous case of the Messina Brothers had come up at the Bailey and the People's intrepid exposure artist, Duncan Webb, had been exposed himself for not making an excuse and leaving - bringing all investigative newspapers into disrepute. After that, it had become a sackable offence to ever make the same mistake. Gabbert, Trever Kempson and myself had been on the People at the time. When Gabbert was lured to the NoW in Bouverie Street, he took Kempson and me with him. As far as I was concerned, the rule was sacrosanct. But I do appear to be the only one who nearly always obeyed it.
Kempson, billed in the new book on the history of the NoW by former news editor Roy Stockdill and his sidekick Bainsbridge, as one of the "greatest investigative reporters who ever lived" was an enigma to me. He was, on the face of it, fiercely moral and truly believed (when he went for any semblance of perversion), he was correcting public morals. I worked beside him for many years and was sometimes disturbed by his fervour. Yet in his desk he kept almost every perverted piece of material the NoW had ever gathered - and it spilled over into several other drawers.
Every day when he came in he would open these draws in succession and purse his lips in disgust and splutter: "Horrible, filthy bastards. Just look at what they get up to." It could, of course, have been him merely reinforcing his crusading convictions. But I think not. I think he got a recurring kick out of the whole lot.
Well, each to their own. But it was a funny activity for a newspaper which purported to be upholding the national sense of morality. And that's why Cutler's reports continue to disturb me.
Oh, by the way, after we'd put the Czech story to bed, and before I went for a midnight Pimms at the Savoy, I asked Gabbert how his fuck had gone. "Less said, the better," he told me. "But if ever anyone sends you to the Blue Garter in Kensington make an excuse and don't go. I'm their favourite client."
By far the worst in this scam are those owned by Rupert Murdoch - especially the Sun which is plundering some £1 m a month from its readers.
The Sun has dozens 0891 of services for its Raceword, Crossword, Sundial, Stars' forecast, Helplines, Racing Hotlines and Name Game on a regular basis. On an ad hoc basis there are often others. They are either 'information services' or competitions. The information is sold at clear profit of an average 33p a minute, after BT taking its cut. The competition scams are simple. Readers pay through the nose for about ten per cent of the telephone profits.
But the biggest scam of all at the Sun, is their "You the Jury". It is impossible to estimate on other lines just how many people call up at 39-49 pee a time. But the Jury vote can be estimated because the Sun prints it openly the following day. A typical example was the vote on the "Yob Thumping Cop" in which 44,864 called to say policeman Richard King should not be jailed. Some 1681 voted he should be.
At an average 10p a vote we estimate News International made a £2,500 profit asking their readers what they thought. Not only do they then exploit this in at least a prominent page lead (if not a front page), but they have a cast-iron readership survey thrown in to the bargain. This little money spinner brings them in about a quarter of a million a year.
But their lottery replay is the biggest con of all. They ask you to call a number and read out your bar code. You are then allotted a random selection of numbers, just as in the lottery. It takes 90 seconds - an average 33p profit - per call. The Prize is £100,000. But some 100,000 calls per week, bringing in £132,000 a month. If they run the competition for a full year they are turning over some £1.58 m and, as in the lottery itself, the odds of anyone winning on any possible number are 14 million to one.
It's money for jam.
The resignation of Richard Gott from the Guardian would be nauseous if it wasn't so laughably, sanctimoniously, bloody silly, (writes Simon Regan). Hot on the heels of their hypocrisy over the mini-scandal of signing false faxes on stolen headed notepaper, Guardian editor Peter Preston gets all holier than thou by accepting Gott's resignation, when he should have laughed it off.
The fact is that any journalist worth their mettle, out covering any possible sensitive part of the world (and if they have access to anyone even remotely important) sooner or later gets embroiled in espionage whether they like it or not. It is such par for the course that you are simply not doing your job if someone, somewhere, in the spying game doesn't notice you.
In my case it was both in India and the Middle East - shortly after the Five Day War - in which ALL sides tried to ply you with drinks, women, good meals, pay-offs, trips to night clubs and anything else you might fancy, merely to justify a living and glean a small amount of information about other people you may have talked to.
The most notorious place for intrigues in those days was the George V in Beirut which held spy parties every afternoon around the swimming pool. The Isvestia correspondent was a full-blown colonel in the KGB, and let everyone know it. He was also most happy to pick up the tabs - however much champagne was flowing. He did once take me out to the high spots, which were some of the best in the world before Beirut went into a self-destruct mechanism. But the floor show was fat women performing with donkeys, and it wasn't quite my cup of tea, so I quickly slid out of the back door.
The fact is that not only was mucking about with the KGB a great deal of fun, but diplomats on "our" side were desperate that you should do so. They couldn't go up and ask what everyone was up to, but we could, and did on a regular basis.
The entire world of being a foreign correspondent is having the right contacts in the right place, and in such a volatile area as the Mid-East, anyone who thought they could weave their way through the intrigues was worth sharing a beer with.
The fact is, in that tenuous game, you don't take sides if the information is coming your way - because information is your very life-blood. It is your wages and your only saleable commodity. You depend on it and I personally never gave a damn where it came from.
Anyway, all the KGB men I ever met were a load of laughs, out for a good time, and excellent company. I'm sure Mr. Gott found that out for himself, and he should be proud of it.
"Hallo...is that Lord Chartiris? Yes. Well, look here old boy, it's Sarah here. Ya. You know, Fergie. What's all this nonsense about you calling me bloody vulgar?"
"Ehmm...well....yes...most unfortunate. Slip of the tongue...ehmm..."
"Ya, I've been called a lot worse thing, but what exactly did you mean? Just because you've seen pictures of my tits"
"Well, Your Highness, I'm sorry to say so...but you are...rather..sort of....vulgar aren't you?"
"Be bloody specific, you old tart."
"Well, for a start, you weren't a virgin when you married above yourself like that. Look at all those sordid pictures of your ex-lover Paddy McNully."
"Well Diane WAS a virgin, but it didn't do her much good, did it? And, anyway, Andrew was desperate for SOMEONE who could show him the ropes. He hardly knew where to put it."
"Yes...but then there was that disgraceful time at the races when you were actually whooping and hollering and throwing bread rolls at the Prince - hardly royal behaviour was it?"
"Well, I don't know what bloody royal behaviour is supposed to be but if it means I'm never allowed to have a bit of fun I don't want to be one."
"Then you were running that great ostentatious house in Sunningdale while the rest of the country was terrified of their mortgages. Very bad form, if I may say so."
"Oh, come on, Charty, when did the Queen worry about other people's mortgages?"
"Yes, but she's THE Queen. We shouldn't expect her to worry about mundane things like mortgages."
"She wouldn't know what a mortgage was."
"And how COULD you allow someone to suck your toes - half naked in front of the cameras like that?"
"Oh, Charty, you should try it sometime. At least Johnny didn't want to be a tampax like my bloody brother-in-law. And if it wasn't for his financial advice I'd be bankrupt by now, with what Andie gives me. And, anyway at least it was only my toes. Good job those photo wallahs couldn't get inside. That'd have given the old Queen Mum kittens. Talking of that, I thought you and she were a bit old for all that hankey pankey by now. What with her gamy leg and everything. And here you are coming out with all the royal pillow talk. You should be ashamed of yourself."
"Eh, yes....well. We were just good friends."
"Don't give me all that baloney, Charty. All that stuff about her being resilient. I bet she is. Like a cart horse. You should try sucking HER toes once in a while. It'll do you both good."
"Now listen, young lady, you're only proving my point. Vulgarity. Just like your father."
"Well, Charty, old boy, at least I know who my father is."
So when pensioner, Ted Newberry peppered the yobbo who attempted to invade his garden shed you'd have thought it was fair enough; if he hadn't been there he wouldn't have got shot. The jury in the original trial certainly thought so when they jailed the yob and fined him £400.
But no. In the pursuit of political correctness one guardian of our legal system went right off his trolley, at the same time ensuring his place in our legal history ... for on 1st December, 1994 in the High Court ( where the yobbo, Mark Revill, sued the pensioner for compensation) Judge Rougier, in awarding Revill £4000 for loss of earnings, officially recognised burglary as a legitimate job.
Not a job in the slang sense you understand. Not in the sense that the villain sunning himself on the Costa del Crime might be enjoying the proceeds of a job he did at Brinks Matt. But in the sense of burglary is now an official occupation like plumbing and accountancy. And that being the case, said the good Judge, the burglar is entitled to loss of earnings for not being able to carry out his normal occupation.
For being a victim you see is a very serious offence. So if you're like 82 year old victim Fred Newberry who has been unwise enough to spend all his life scrimping and saving to be the king of his own castle then watch out. For you then have capital assets against which a burgling yobbo like Mark Revill can demand damages. And to compound the deftness of this ruling, while you cannot get legal aid, Mark Revill, in order to pursue his claim against you, can and has done.
The mind boggles. Where will it all stop? What other felonious deeds are to be legalised and therefore open to compensation should the wrongdoer be prevented from doing wrongdoings.
What of the prostitute who gets a dose of clap? Will she be able to sue her client for loss of earnings instead of lying back and thinking of England? Will the arsonist, deprived of his occupation by the rising price of 4-star, be entitled to claim compensation from the Chancellor? In fact, going the whole hog if all freelance activities previously regarded as villainous are now to be deemed legitimate, can those incarcerated behind bars for perpetrating the acts now institute legal proceedings against the authorities for wrongful imprisonment and loss of earnings?
You see in the old Bible, all those goody-goodies who ascended to heaven sat on the right hand of God. Well, apparently that geographical position has been getting right up the noses of southpaws for the best part of two thousand years. "We're fed up with this", they finally complained. "We've been polydactyly stigmatised for long enough." So in The Good Book they now sit at God's mighty hand.
And God himself has also got his comeuppance. He used to be Known as God the Father. Not any more. He's God the Father/Mother. His son hasn't got away unscathed either. No more is he the Son of God, he's now become Jesus the human one. Bit of a come-down that, don't you think? He used to be able to bathe in his dad's reflected glory. Now he's just one of us. A bloke you wouldn't look twice at if he passed you in the street.
Then of course to be racially unprejudiced you can't go having Jews responsible for crucifying Christ. Having not read the book I can't tell you how they get away with this one but since you can always choose which bits of the old Bible you believe in I don't suppose it matters much.
One thing which I cannot make out is how the Good Book has got around the problem of Jesus' miracles. I mean if every reference to the blind or the crippled is removed how can Jesus cure them? I'd have thought that in order to perform the miraculous cure of a disability someone has to be disabled in the first place ... But then I never was a believer.
Thought for the month: Take it from me, marriage is not a word, it's a sentence.
The opening words of Dostievski's Notes From the Underground are amazingly prophetic and demonstrate how deeply entrenched are Yeltsin's acutely felt anxieties: "I'm a sick man. I am an angry man. I am an unattractive man. I think there is something wrong with my liver ." The great Dostievski as we know , too, was an inveterate gambler. Yeltsin was brought up on his works. He is known to have read them voraciously over and over again and has modelled his life on him. He is deeply worried by his health and his appearance and his liver. He has real cause also to be worried by his Dostievskian drive to gamble.
For instance, Yeltsin was known to have slipped out of the Soviet Union on many occasions to play the casinos in the west. At one stage he spent his thirtieth birthday in Las Vegas under a pseudonym: Fyodor Pravda. By all accounts on one occasion he lost upward of ten thousand dollars on the throw of a single dice. A year or two later it was claimed he had been seen in Monte Carlo losing heavily at black jack.
It is widely accepted that the Chechens, along with the Georgians, control organised crime in Moscow and St Petersburg. What is a lesser known fact is that Boris Yeltsin has been losing heavily in the major casinos there: Tchipsgon and Nerienpluskov. Basically he was up to his ears in debt with the Chechen Mafia. Some say a sum equivalent to four million dollars. Given Yeltsin's Russian predilection for gambling, banditry and booze, he ordered the attack on Grozny when totally rat-arsed to clear his gambling debts by using the Interior Ministry forces as a raiding party.
It is also the case that in Yeltsin's home town of Ivangorod, the local Mafia is run by the Goforbrokskians which is a small semi- autonomous region in the Caucasus about seven hundred miles from Chechnya. Yeltsin owes them out four millions in US dollars, too. Look out for an all out attack on the capital Uppurs. Yeltsin is a sick man. He is an angry man. He is an unattractive man. He is a bad loser and there is something very wrong with his liver.
Never before have so many people died for the combination of a gambling debt and a bad liver.
Unfortunately, St Peter did not take kindly to Potter, Osbourne and Cook when they did finally arrive at the pearly gates. Potter had remained in transit for a month or two, as he had caught wind that two like-minded bourgeois subversives would soon be joining him. Realising that a literal Heaven and Hell probably did exist after all and his irreverent literary pondering may get him into a spot of post-mortem bother, he supposed that there might be safety in numbers. Perhaps, these three atheists surmised that they could reason with St Peter. Although a modicum of theological erudition no doubt revealed that neither celestial place was built on reason, but rather on the insane whim of a divine being - namely ME, these deceased dissidents seemed to miss the point.
You should have seen their ghostly faces when St Peter shrieked. "Piss off blasphemers! I've read your filthy ramblings, and you're not coming in. Get it! I suppose you thought you could get away with writing rude stuff like 'The Singing Detective' or 'Look Back In Anger' or 'Lord Gnome' Don't you realise the damage you have done to the social fabric of your nation? Get thee to Hell Infidel".
Well, Potter tried to explain that his work was actually allegorical and that much of its lyrical content was derived from a terribly English Christian tradition and should not be taken at face value. "Put that cigarette out!" St Peter howled "There's nothing worse than nicotine for staining an angel's wing".
Osbourne rebuked St Peter and roared that I had done fuck all for the post war working class and it was hardly surprising that such a God-forsaken era had spawned authors of his ilk. He said that even though he had seen a few angels fly past, (choking on the fumes from Potter's fag) he still refused to acknowledge MY existence and thought that he was in some necrophiliac fantasy cooked up by his over active genius on the point of expiration. "It's quite apt for a man of my apocalyptic vision to cultivate a delusion as awe inspiring as Dante's inferno" he said.
Peter Cook who was still drunk despite the fact that he was dead didn't know where he was, but believed that wherever he was it was probably not in Hampstead. Alas, these three wise men were deprived of more time to acclimatise because several hundred fiery demons grabbed them by the short and curlies and dragged them, complaining vituperatively, down to Hell.
At which juncture Fred West arrived, his neck still smarting from the noose. St Peter's attitude to him was entirely different. Okay, he had collected corpses like a kid collects stamps, but just before he topped himself he turned his eyes to Heaven and repented. I decided to forgive him, mainly because I needed some work done on my garden, and he'd had so much practice at digging up shrubbery. So now, while Cook, Osbourne and Potter burn in the fires of Hell cos they weren't polite enough even to say sorry, Fred West has earned a lovely pair of golden wings and is working wonders with my celestial geraniums. He tells me that he has a special recipe for manure which will make them grow twice as fast. Which just goes to show what divine mercy is really all about.
He might have been a serial killer on earth, but in Heaven he's such an angel. There's only one problem, he says he's dying for a fag.
Now, if Moses had been half the prophet and not a complete idiot, he would have realised that the patch of filthy desert that he called the promised land was hardly Eden. I mean take MY people to the Rivierra, the Costa Del Sol, the Bahamas, but not the bleedin' desert. Anyway, it's not surprising that a man of his subterranean IQ would consider such unlikely maxims as Thou Shalt Not Kill to be the final Word of Me. Didn't he think something was slightly adrift when the seas of Galilee parted and he started spouting "God has said Thou Shalt Not Kill" then I drowned thousands of Egyptians under several tons of water?
Ah, I just wish I had one relatively intelligent Spare Rib or Adam to believe in ME. But then I've lost a lot of credibility of late. Only blind inadequate sheep like Rabbi Sachs take ME at My Word, while better men, alas, like Potter, must smoke in Hell. Amen.
Various Conservative back-benchers and the entire Labour Party were pressing the Government to over-turn the legislation letting anyone who could hum the "Blue Danube" into British waters, however the floating rent-a-vote Ulster Unionists went with the govt. in return for some rather heavily battered Skate and hopelessly greasy chips.
Now, if you can prove that you know where the Nou Camp stadium is, you will be allowed to rape and pillage our depressingly low levels of fish, but can only sell them if you can spell pedilo (can we, Ed!)!
However, there is a growing movement, sponsored by Scallywag, that have sought to determine who the fish would most like to be caught by and English anglers have come out, swimmingly on top. A rather large and intimidating Tuna, was appointed as the over-all spokesman for the gilled community.
The Tuna took a Portillo-like line with the EU hook barbers. "Given a choice and stating a scaled preference, there is no way we would cling onto a Spaniard's grapple." The Tuna Said "Our experience which has come through the polluted grapevine, is that, we would end up swimming in a sauce of olive oil, garlic and onion, only to be swallowed by some over-weight Pedro and be taken, intestinally to watch a brother animal slaughtered by nunces in pseudo cowboy outfits. Yes I'm talking about bloody bull-fights. We can't condone being eaten by people who still consider the killing of these beasts as some sort of sport. Then there's the French. Bloody goat's cheese and baguette is no way for us to be sandwiched. Greek's want us kebabed and Portuguese barbecued. Italians rate the sardine higher than Tuna, so that discounts them from any sensible thought and basically we're back to the Brits. Frankly we'd rather swim in crude oil and end up in a tin of brine with the emblem "Dolphin friendly" than anything else. If the Commons does not listen to us, we shall refuse to rise to any bait what-so-ever."
Hopefully this threat of industrial ocean action, will bring Major and Co., renowned fish eaters to a woman, to their deep- sea senses.
Not just in feminism, but across the board. For example, after five years of being ostracised and jobless, a senior social worker in Birmingham, Pauline Richards, was completely exonerated of a racial slur she was said to have given one of her black underlings. She got full compensation after the council admitted that all she had done was criticise one of her staff for ineptitude - which she was paid to do. For all this time it has created a situation in the department where no white person could even give advice to a black person - however wrong they may be in a case. In the social services, this is particularly dangerous. They are constantly dealing in human lives, and such things as the abuse of children. No one should be allowed to screw up just because they are black.
McKenzie, for more than a decade this rumbustuous, rude, unquestionably brilliant, and despotic ruler, was editor of the of Sun newspaper. Often in defiance of any good taste, and certainly never succumbing to Political Correctness, the circulation soared and soared under his quixotic reign.
As it is Murdoch's habit, when he finds the kind of talent he is looking for, to suck the energy dry for an average ten years before putting the golden glove on. Sir Larry Lamb and Andrew Neil will attest to that. In latter years Murdoch has employed the 'kicking-up- stairs' syndrome with ruthless efficiency. He then puts in a fall guy for a time to take all the flack during the transition period, and when he is ready, places another of his 'real finds' in the hot seat.
But this time Murdoch genuinely believed McKenzie had his finger on the British public pulse. And so he did - when he enjoyed the status as doyen of the tabloid press and ran headlines like "Up Yours Delors." Maybe he did at Sky BTV too. But he knew very little about the pulses of a boardroom.
Despite the constant misgivings of the more experienced managers, financiers and businessmen, Murdoch backed his new man to the hilt. Until McKenzie brashly decided to take on a small, politely spoken, diminutive, boxing manager who had been born into poverty in London's East End. A certain Frank Maloney, who has himself never run away from a punch up.
Maloney both promoted and managed the then reigning champion of the world, Lennox Lewis. It was fully expected, until his recent surprise defeat, he would have at least three more bouts as champ - also meeting Riddick Bowe - and when the time came, Mike Tyson. A three-fight deal for the exclusive rights of live TV coverage was money in the bank.
In all good faith, Maloney went to Sky Sports first and the executive leapt at the chance. Whatever the outcome, Sky agreed to a three-fight fee of £3.4 million. A fully legal contract was signed with the then MD of Sky Sport, Gary Davey.
For both sides it was an incredibly good deal. But for Sky it was a Godsend. They had effectively beaten off stiff world opposition to show the next three world champion fights for just around £1.1m a shot. In terms of real income it was worth around £20 million to the satellite company. Then Kelvin came along.
Only eight weeks after becoming MD he still thought he was striding around the corridors of power at Wapping. He took a look at the contract and decided they were paying too much. He summoned Maloney to his office and brashly stated he was "refining" the contract. They would pay, McKenzie said, £200,000 less per fight - bringing it down to less than a million each. Maloney just said good-bye.
"Kelvin thought he was God's gift to television negotiation," he said later. "He forgot the art of negotiation. It was a take it or leave it offer and he decided he could just bully me. Well, he was crackers trying to do that, because I had the commodity every TV station in the world wanted - Lennox Lewis. As far as I was concerned, we'd signed a contract."
The cool down lasted two months and executives at Sky remember McKenzie was absolute confident Maloney would come grovelling back to accept the lower price. He did not know Frank Maloney.
Frank had meanwhile been negotiating with Sky's main rival telecommunications Inc., the largest cable TV company in the US, trying desperately for a dramatic boost in their UK sales. They promptly upped the offer to a straight £5m - and no mucking about. Before this Maloney went to see McKenzie to tell him about it. Apparently, McKenzie laughed and said, you'll never go through with it. The next day Maloney did.
As soon as the catastrophe had begun to filter through the Sky boardroom, and they realised they had blown a certain £20 million because of McKenzie's incompetence, the shit hit the fan. Sky had already planned and implemented a huge promotion based on the title fights. Extra lucrative advertising at astronomical rates was pouring in. And now they'd sold the best asset they'd ever had right down the river.
McKenzie's days were numbered and in a desperate attempt to dig himself out of the hole he rashly signed up Chris Eubank, a clearly fading star, for a ten fight deal for £10 m.. Yet even this was botched. The contract stated it was void as soon as Eubank lost. This made sure that Eubank would grab the money and run and make absolutely sure he did not meet anyone he could not beat.
In boxing terms it was just another night out. It did not have a pinch of the total charisma a world title fight would have had with Riddick Bowe. And if Tyson had got out of prison, he would have had to have a showdown at last with Lennox Lewis. Probably one of the most important fight in boxing history. Certainly one which would gain world-wide attention.
One of Murdoch's key and trusted execs had by then flown back to London after setting up Murdoch's Star TV satellite station in Hong Kong. When he heard about the Lewis fiasco he justifiably hit the roof and flew to New York where he very effectively put the knife firmly between McKenzie's shoulder blades.
Murdoch agreed. McKenzie had to go, so the normal platitudes of resignation were drafted out and McKenzie finally packed his bags.
The settlement arose over an article in the New Journal in June 1993 describing the arrest and handcuffing of a black woman at the London Electricity showrooms in Kentish Town. Her three month old baby and three year old daughter were with her.
Although none of the arresting police officers were named, the Police Federation unleashed a formidable legal offensive against the paper. Having settled, the Editor wrote a front page article raising the issue of Libel reform. Scallywag has republished this article, as we believe it correctly describes the present danger facing all newspapers from an over-litigious establishment.
We made no allegations of misconduct by the police. We merely reported them together with the response of the Chief Superintendent at Kentish Town Police Station.We do not feel we have anything to hide. On the contrary, we want as many of our readers as possible to know about it.
From the first day when the police officers issued their writ last March, through the solicitors, we believed that it touched on the important issue of freedom of the press.
And as an independently owned local newspaper - unique as such on the London landscape of local weeklies - we passionately believe in the freedom of the press. Without it, the individual is often stripped of any protection against malpractice's and the tyranny of public officials - elected or un elected. Why didn't we contest the Writ brought by the police officers?
We didn't identify them. We only published what our reporters were told and what the senior officer at Kentish town Police station said in response to our questions.
But the libel laws in this country are complex and uncertain. Defendants often cannot defend themselves unless they are rich and powerful.
Libel actions involve escalating costs in the months leading up to the trial, not to mention the mammoth costs of the trial itself, and as such have become, as recent well publicised cases have shown, a game only millionaires can play.
The risk was too great for this newspaper. A settlement therefore had to be made.
Our libel laws need to be reformed. There are changes afoot that will help to bring this about. In the United States - where the press has much greater freedom to fearlessly criticise public officials - a landmark Supreme Court ruling in the early sixties that gave greater protection to newspapers is at last beginning to filter through into court rulings in many parts of the world. Unfortunately, it is yet to be accepted in Britain.
This action taken by police officers at Kentish Town appeared to have been part of a pattern of libel writs issued by police officers against regional newspapers and broadcasting companies in the past three years. As far as we are aware all such legal suits were funded by the powerful Police Federation providing a kind of legal aid for the type of case where Government legal aid is not available. In these cases the police officers have been able to sue without any direct risk to their own pockets.
The good reputation of members of the police services is unquestionably important. As is the reputation of other public officials - elected or unelected.
But just as important is the right of the media to report public concerns. Especially - in our opinion - where police officers or public officials are involved.
If the actions of unidentified public officials cannot be made subject to scrutiny in the press is not our democracy in risk of becoming an endangered species?
The Police Federation have vehemently denied that they are trying to intimidate the press, or that proceedings have been launched because of wider police considerations. They say that if the press publish something that is true or fair comment, they will have nothing to worry about.
But this conveniently ignores the fact that it is the ludicrously high cost of defending a libel action that so often compels the press to settle out of court. We understand that recent settlements with regional newspapers have netted the police well over £200,000. The police solicitors claimed in our case legal costs of just under £20,000. The eight police-men will therefore share damages of around £10,000.
The right to have a free press - the foundation of a democracy - has been fought for by journalists and reformers for centuries in Britain.
Any attempt to shackle the press, whether by the government or any other public institution or by public officials, should be exposed.
Otherwise, by default the lights will go out on democracy.