Another voice
You never get rid of the Dame
A uberon Waugh In the course of my professional duties I suppose I must have attended nearly a score of defended libel actions at one time or another, although only once as a defendant. On the other occasions I was simply an observer. Judged for their entertainment value they are usually a disappointment. The most depressingly predictable feature is that the jury, where there is a jury, invariably returns the wrong verdict, usually guided to it by the judge. But a more bizarre coincidence than this is that in every libel action I can remember the plaintiffs counsel, in winding up his case at the end, has suddenly remembered a few lines from Othello and produces them with an air of gravity, rather as if they came from the Sermon on the Mount: 'Who steals my purse steals trash . . . But he that filches from me my good name Robs me of that which not enriches him And makes me poor indeed.'
Counsel always pronounces the lines as if he had just discovered them, but I imagine they are to be found in some advocate's handbook of useful quotations. It is a pity that the same handbook does not reveal their source – from the mouth of Iago, the greatest villain in English literature.
Defence Counsel, for some reason, are usually less fluent with their quotations. I have never heard, for instance, any defence barrister quote the much more famous English proverb: sticks and stones may break my bones but words will never harm me. If that ancient piece of common sense were adopted, then the bottom would fall out of the lucrative libel practice which allows lawyers to grow fat on the vanity, greed and vindictiveness of their fellow citizens.
The truth, boringly enough, almost certainly lies betwen the two extremes. There are certain classes of person — bookmakers and clergymen as well as crooks – who are plainly more vulnerable than most to attacks on their integrity, even if the central lie on which our oppressive libel law is based — that an honourable citizen is damaged by malicious and untrue gossip — is exposed every day in the normal intercourse of human society.
An exact measure of this justification for our libel laws — that a person's reputation suffers from defamatory references to him in the press–may be allowed by the case of Mr Jeremy Thorpe. When he faced the electors of North Devon in May 1979, he had not simply been the victim of a disparaging or insinuating article in the press, for which he could have collected tens of thousands of pounds of damages in the normal course of events. He had been formally accused by the Crown of some extremely unpleasant crimes. More -Mil this, every newspaper in the country had given the greatest prominence to the details of these allegations, under privilege, for three full weeks. The actual effect of this onslaught upon his good reputation can be exactly measured: fewer than 5,000 of his Liberal supporters in North Devon switched their votes; 23,358 citizens continued to vote for him regardless. One can argue that in English law and in polite English custom a man is innocent until he has been found guilty in court, but if this is true of solemn indictments by the Crown it must be a hundred times truer of unsupported allegations by a journalist. In the case of many newspapers, it is only the existence of these draconian laws which lend any credibility at all to what they say.
This perception that our libel laws are 95 per cent hogwash, and largely counterproductive in protecting the good reputation of British citizens, seems an essential background to celebrations of Private Eye's ,500th issue this fortnight. As a comparative • new boy on the Eye, having contributed to only 286 of its issues and served for only 11 of its 20 years' existence, I am still mildly upset by the self-righteous venom which it excites among the less secure members of our country's opinion-forming fraternity. When I am personally assailed — as on the occasion the then editor of the News of the World, Mr Bernard `Slimy' Shrimsley, held me up before his eight million masturbating readers as Rat of the Year, or when his dear little red-faced brother Mr Tony 'Toady' Shrimsley, editor of Now! informed his own rapidly shrinking readership that I was a `liar motivated by malice who does not deserve either to be employed as a journalist or to share the company of decent people' — I confess I rather enjoy it, as any practitioner of the vituperative arts is bound to do. But when I see a fellow-journalist with no apparent axe to grind (beyond, perhaps, his own future anxieties) striking high moral attitudes, criticising the Eye's standards of 'accuracy' or questioning its beneficial influence on the whole fabric of our nation, 1 must admit I am slightly shocked. To me at any rate, it is rather like seeing Polish or Czech soldiers spitting on their countries' flags.
Obviously, they do not see it that way themselves, The emphasis of these attacks has over the years shifted. From original accusations of anti-semitism — if I were a Jew I think I would be intensely irritated by the practice of some fellow-Jews, when attacked, to accuse their detractors of anti-semitism — and insufficient respect for those with homosexual tendencies, the Eye is now most frequently accused of sadism and wanton cruelty, usually to small children. In a country which traditionally loathes its children, the suggestion that one cannot attack a man or woman in public life for fear of upsetting their kiddies strikes me as particularly rich.
Finally, there is the accusation of humbug — that anyone who reviles anyone else might necessarily be claiming greater holiness for himself. Well. I expect Ingrams is a better man than most of them, but that is not my point. If this criticism were taken seriously, it would put an end to all invective, all vituperation, all scurrility and most of the fun of human society. Newspapers would emerge as some sort of cross between a charismatic love-in and a MRA public repentance forum.
Greek Street wore a festive air last week, what with the hilarious account of the Afghanistan Labour MP's antics in a Berlin homosexual nightclub, since denied: 'The suggestion that I was wearing a dog collar and being whipped is complete and utter rubbish.' Festivity was subdued only by the sad news of yet another writ from `Dame' Harold Evans (his third? fourth? fifth?) the gritty new editor of The Times who is understandably impatient of any uninformed or inaccurate criticism of his great achievements Latest ABC figures reveal that the Eye's circulation (144,075) had zoomed ahead of Now!'s (119,705) despite all the hundreds — possibly millions — of pounds spent on advertising Goldsmith's worthless product and its earlier 'guaranteed' ,circulation of 250,000. With a markedly higher AB readership and charging half the page rates for advertisements, it seems probable that the Eye will somehow survive on its rickety course long after Now! has disappeared beneath the waves.
But anxiety always remains, this time prompted by 'the Dame's' latest writ. Something like terror could be seen on the faces of Lord Gnome's dependants when they learned that this time the Dame was demanding £10,000 for the injuries he had suffered. Perhaps I should explain, in the unlikely event of a Spectator reader finding himself on the jury, that I have no knowledge of the details, nor any opinion on the merits of the Evans case.
Once again the bugles soundfrom the, mountain tops and the flabby old coward Lord Gnome must buckle his armour around him. As I urged him when the first of this long-running series of writs arrived' it is the greatest mistake to pay a farthing in damages to any journalist — even the most sensitive and prestigious of them — until ordered to do so by the court. As Kipling said: For that is called paying the Dame-geld; But we've proved it again and again, That once you have paid him the Dame' geld You never get rid of the Dame.
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