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LAISSEZ LES BONTEMPS ROULEZ - THREE WEEKS IN ACADIANA
Twelve years ago, following a long held interest in Cajun culture and music, my parents holidayed in Acadiana, the homeland of Louisiana's Cajun community. Whilst there, they made some good friends amongst the local population of a small town in Jefferson Davis Parish and every year after, they returned - sometimes two or three times - strengthening the bond. Three years ago, they realised a dream and bought a home there. Earlier this year, I was invited out to join them for three weeks over Easter; to meet the friends they know so well and who are such an important part of their lives, to see the home they've put so much of their hearts and souls into and perhaps most important of all, to see my little brother. Just over two years ago now, he married an American girl and emigrated to settle with her in the U.S and I hadn't seem him since. Despite having travelled extensively throughout the U.S over the years, this trip was my first to the heart of real America - to a small town community well away from the gravitational pull of one of the Union's big-name cities. And what I found both fascinated and enchanted me. Arriving via Houston, Texas, I was a little surprised by the Immigration officer who commented on the number of stamps in my passport. On asking me about and learning of my occupation, he then launched into a sollioquy espousing the merits of the book he was writing and asking my professional advice! Finally, he smiled broadly and shook my hand - the last thing I was expecting given some accounts I've heard about the manner of those working for the infamous Dept. of Homeland Security. If he's representative, the U.S is a far more welcoming place for tourists than perhaps at any time since 9/11.
This augured well for what lay ahead - in essence, a thoroughly relaxing time which saw me feasting (countless crawfish, alligator, gumbos, boudin, jumbalayas and blackened seafood), drinking (mostly plentiful bottles of ice-chilled, weak American lagers whilst craving a proper English beer!) and reading. Days were spent sitting on the swing seat on the rear porch, book in hand, soaking up the heat from the 80 degree daytime temperatures, nights at local bars or restaurants where Cajun food and music were in abundance.
Dad and Me: A self-portait The hire car, a Buick Century, racked up 3,000 miles over the three weeks I was there, making countless trips to Wal-Mart stores (the nearest was a 50 mile round trip from the house!) where I could spend hours in wonder at the sheer scale and incredible savings available on almost everything when compared with prices here in the U.K. Sure, the U.S has always seemed cheap by comparison, but never like this. My brother drove down from his home in Oklahoma at the end of the first week to stay for a week and for the first time in over twenty years, we were a family again - mum, dad, me and little bro. Four of us in a car, going somewhere, just like we used to when we were kids. It was both fun, and a little wierd - at 37, I didn't expect to be slotting back into a role I last had at the age of 16 ! It was great to see my bro again though, and we quickly got back into the old routine, laughing like drains at shared jokes and old memories. Great stuff!
When the wanderlust took hold, we simply hopped in the car and headed off - to Lafayette, Alexandria, Baton Rouge, New Orleans:
Shoeshine Man: Corner of Bourbon St and Bienville, New Orleans, March 23rd. ...the historic city of Natchitoches - wherever the mood took us. Spent many a weekend evening eating and drinking at DI's Cajun Restaurant in Basille, with the final Saturday evening at The Liberty Theatre, Eunice listening to a live performance by Steve Riley and the Mamou Playboys. My immersion into Cajun culture was complete.
As ever though, it's the people you meet that make the most lasting impression and I was blown away by the hospitality and hand of friendship extended by so many of those I met for the first time. Tina and Lee for the Crawfish Cookout on Good Friday;
Man's Best Friend: Lee and his dog Ginger watch the sun go down on Easter Saturday Corey, Lisa and Alexi for the night out and hospitality when we arrived in Houston - a little bit of Cajun culture in Texas! Donny for the lengthy chats over beers; Jerry for letting me borrow his internet connection once a week when I needed to email home (cheers, fella!). Don and Jean are simply wonderful people, Loma was great fun and just lovely. Frank and Natalie and their 'children' were the perfect hosts when we went to Natchitoches (thanks for a lovely night out, guys!)
Night Out in Natchitoches: Mum, Dad and Bro with Frank and Natalie and their 'kids' - Danny, Jason and Alison. I spent a couple of days with the local Police Department as a guest of the Cheif of Police Wayne Richard, who also doubles as 50 percent of the force's K-9 section with his dog Carlo, a Belgian Malinois.
The other 50 percent is formed by a Chocolate Labrador, RIP and his handler Doug.
As a former copper, I've always enjoyed talking to cops in the U.S, swapping war stories and anecdotes of what we do differently (and what we do the same). The ties that bind us though are far stronger, the shared experiences linking us. I found it a little ironic that despite having previously shadowed and talked to cops from San Francisco, the New York Police Department, the LAPD and beyond, Chief Richard at the Elton PD is the only officer I've met so far to have shot and killed suspects in the line of duty.
The first day we spent together was relatively benign, an opportunity to meet and talk with officers from the department.
I did arrange to have my brother arrested at gunpoint though, a suitable punishment for all those sibling rivalries of so many years ago.
Well, I'm a Scorpio - what did you expect?!
Not to worry though, I didn't have him executed or anything - just packed him off in a black and white:
...and had him thrown into the town's hundred year old jail (I'm still trying to come up with an appropriate charge, but he'll be okay on remand in there until I do).
The second day was a little more interesting though, as a neighbouring force requested assistance from the dog section and I joined Chief Richard and his dog Carlo in their black and white on a high-speed race to a drugs bust. The scene was like something out of a pulp fiction novel - the suspect's home was a trailer, in a trailer park, with a washing machine on its side in the front yard next to a pickup truck, the front of which was supported on bricks. To add a twist to the tale, the suspect was himself a police officer in another police department.
Police dogs in most U.S forceshold the rank of police officer and are counted as part of the force's official strength (who says its just us Brits that are sentimental about our animals?!). They are issued with their own shields, which they wear visible upon their collars and should any suspect think eliminating them is the easy option, beware - an attempt to kill a police dog is regarded as an attempt to kill a police officer, attracting the same penalty upon conviction as that for an attempt on the handler's, or any other officer's life.
When not learning about local police procedures, or maxing out my card at Wal-Mart, I was back into a world of books and cold beer. I took six books with me - three novels by Dan Brown (Decption Point, Angels and Demons and Digital Fortress) - and the following:
Morgan's account was unputdownable, a real revelation. He doesn't hold back and isn't afraid to turn the light of criticism upon himself, being far harsher about his own actions on occasion than some other commentators have been. Chris Heath's book on Robbie was again brilliant, a unique bit of writing on one of Britain's most successful singers and a showman in the vein of Freddie Mercury. Finally Peter Hyman's account of life as a teacher at London's Islington Green School, an inner city comprehensive which he joined after ten years at Downing Street as Tony Blair's scriptwriter and policy advisor shis a damning indictment of contemporary education in the U.K. A fascinating insight. Perhaps unsurprisingly, I ended up ploughing through all six books well before the second week was halfway through, necessitating a trip to the Mall and BooksaMillion where I picked up two more - Blue Blood by Edward Conlon (an account of life as a cop in the NYPD) and Blowing my Cover by Lindsay Moran, an account of life as a spy with the CIA. Both worth checking out if you can get hold of them. Off days were a joy as I learned how to get by doing nothing. The plentiful birds that made a home in the garden were a delight, but the real bonus was the hummingbirds which immediately homed in on the feeder that Dad erected outside the kitchen window. Hummers have a fast breathing rate, a fast heartbeat (1260 beats per minute), and a high body temperature. They must feed every 10 minutes or so all day, and they may consume 2/3 of their body weight in a single day. A major part of a hummingbird's diet is sugar which they get from flower nectar and tree sap. Or from a domestic feeder such as we had. From first thing in the morning, they'd be backwards and forwards, feeding throughout the day, drinking the mix of sugar and water that is so vital to their wellbeing.
My credit card took a hammering too as I sought out bargains. Fed up with carrying around my weighty Nikon D1 and countless lenses everytime I wanted a simple snap of a night out with friends, I picked up a 4 megapixel Canon Ixus for a shade over £100. I love it - it's brilliantly built, tiny, feels great and takes fantastic pix. Bought a sonicare ultrasonic toothbrush for $49 (£26 compared to £79.99 here!), plentiful DVDs and no end of toiletries at ridiculous prices when compared to what we pay here, but my favourite buy was a bottle of Jack Daniels Single Barrel for a shade under £20 (when you can find it here, you'll pay around £40). I flew back last Wednesday, arriving home Thursday, although my exit from the U.S was by no means as smooth as my entry (that particular debacle merits a blog entry all its own just as soon as I get myself together - hopefully later this week). Straight back into life here, with a night out in the West End with P on Saturday and a leisurely lunch at a local pub with P, Nick and Eva yesterday - a blissful day spent with great friends, eating and drinking before ploughing back to ours where Nick and I made a start on the JD single Barrel - that's one bottle that ain't gonna last long! It's nice to be back home, especially as I seem to have bypassed all the worst that the British weather had to offer, returning on a beautiful spring day, alive with vibrant colour. Jet Lag is noticeably absent too - aside from sleeping until 13:00 on Friday, I'm pretty much back to normal sleeping and waking now. What have I missed at 20six? Anything happened whilst I've been away? |
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11.4.05 14:45 |
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WELCOME TO THE HOTEL CALIFORNIA
I've been asked about the event that caused my delay in leaving the U.S last week, but before I explain the circumstances, I thought it might be aposite to give some background on the agency responsible so as to put it in context. All is not well it seems, within the Transportation Security Administration (TSA), the U.S agency responsible for airline security. Next Thursday sees the introduction of a highly contentious ban on passengers carrying cigarette lighters in hand luggage - a move first debated after Richard Reid, the so-called "shoe bomber", tried unsuccessfully to light explosives hidden in his shoes on a trans-Atlantic flight in 2002. Earlier this month, the TSA's cheif, David Stone quit just eight months after taking up his post following warnings that, despite a raft of new measures supposed to protect travellers, aircraft were still at risk from terrorist attack. Stone is the embattled agency's third such boss to resign since the 11 September 2001 attacks. The TSA has spent more than $12bn since 9/11 on improving security, including new baggage screeners, more air marshals and making cockpit doors bullet-proof. But confidence in the body was shaken in March this year by a leaked report by the Department of Homeland Security and FBI that found airlines remained at risk of terrorist attacks, despite security improvements. Industry experts say that while travellers continue to be hit by anti-terrorism measures, gaping flaws still exist in other areas. David Rowell, editor of The Travel Insider, is qouted by the BBC as saying, "You can't take a cigarette lighter onto an aircraft, but security in the hold is virtually non-existent. "
And going by own experience at the hands of TSA agents in Houston, Texas last week, it would appear to be considerably easier gaining entry to America than it is departing again. You can, it appears, check out any time you like...but you can never leave.
Having checked in successfully with the British Airways desk at George Bush Intercontinental Airport, Houston, I joined the interminably long queue of travellers waiting to pass through security to the departure lounge (interestingly, delays caused by the increased security procedures introduced by the TSA are relatively low - in February 2005, there were just 214 such delays out of 545,332 flights, according to Department of Transport figures. Predictably though, what these figures do not account for is the extra time passengers now have to set aside to get past tougher security checks). At Heathrow - the world's busiest airport, and a target for terrorists everywhere - we somehow manage to handle passenger and aircraft security both effectively and efficiently. Delays are rarely encountered by travellers, far less anything remotely approaching a lengthy queue. In the U.S though, it's apparently a different matter; Armed, officious looking TSA 'screeners' stand by the metal-detecting arches through which all passengers must pass, pulling random passengers aside together with those who set off the alarm. These people then undergo closer inspection with hand-held 'wands'. Shoes have to be removed, laptops taken out of luggage, all metal objects removed from pockets etc, and placed ton the conveyor belt for X-raying. It's a slow process. At the head of the queue, I complied; hand luggage and camera kit on to the conveyor. Shoes off, sunglasses off, pockets empty. Suitably shorn of possessions, I walked through the arch. The alarm sounded. And immediately, my path was blocked by a TSA agent who appeared before me, seemingly from nowhere. "Can you remove any metal items from your person and walk through the arch again please, Sir?", he asked. I searched my pockets. Empty. Titanium Oakleys sunglasses? Removed. I was wearing a loose fitting t-shirt and jeans...ah, my jeans! Or perhaps more specifically, my belt. I removed it, placed it on the conveyor and walked through again. The alarm sounded. Looking a little more serious now, the TSA agent asked me to extend my arms to the side and began to run the wand over my body. The alarm sounded. "Sir, I'm going to have to ask you to come with me please" the agent said. Another agent stepped to the conveyor leading from the X-Ray and asked me to identify my own possessions which he boxed up, following myself and the agent who'd 'wanded' me. We walked to an area offset from the arch, but within view of the lengthy queue of passengers awaiting processing; it snaked back on itself several times and I felt the eyes of most upon us as they sensed a drama unfolding within view. I was asked to sit in a chair with my feet apart on a specially marked mat as, gradually, each limb in turn was scanned with the wand. It screeched as it passed my waist. "Stand up please, Sir" I was commanded. I complied. "Please remove any metallic objects about your person" the agent demanded. "I have nothing else on me" I told him. Clearly though, the machine in his hand said differently. He scanned me again. As the wand passed over my crotch, the alarm sounded. The agent looked at me. He scanned me again; and again the alarm sounded as the wand passed over my crotch. Things were taking a turn for the worst - I felt like the living embodiment of the definition of Kafkaesque - Kafkaesque fantasies of the impassive interrogation, the false trial, the confiscated passport . . .haunt his innocence - New Yorker." In my imagination, that was all to come - for now, the collective gaze of everyone in the queue was locked upon us; finally, something to break the boredom of waiting! Time to take ownership of this problem and solve it, I thought, mentioning to one of the agents that whilst the 5mm gauge surgical steel piercing which had been a part of my anatomy for almost ten years now might be of interest to a metal detector, it was unlikely to be of any danger to my fellow passengers. Even if I were Ron Jeremy, I still wouldn't have room for a gun down there.
This statement however was met with confusion. I explained exactly what it was that was causing the wand to screech each time it passed over my crotch, but the two agents greeted this news with a look that suggested they were barely on nodding terms with ear rings, let alone body piercings. He wanded me again - like it was going to make a difference! It didn't "Take it out" one of the agents demanded; I resisted the urge to take his command literally, instead telling him "I can't". I explained that because of the heavy gauge of the ring, it could only be removed with a special pair of reverse pliers - not something I'm in the habit of carrying with me. "You're not flying then, Sir" he told me. "Unless you can remove the item and I can wand you without an alarm sounding, you can't get through here". His sidekick, who had been stood beside his colleague the whole time, was clearly hard of hearing. "Take it out" he demanded. I repeated what I'd just told him. He responded with what his friend had just said. "You're not flying". I was slipping beyond reason: "Are you telling me you've never had this situation before? What would you do if I'd had reconstructive surgery on my leg and my thigh had been put together with surgical steel plates and pins? Would you demand that I remove those too?" I got a blank look as an answer. Well, you have to wonder. The ludicrousness of the situation was not lost on me.I had a flight waiting; In the last twelve months, I'd flown over 60,000 miles, travelled through countless airport security checkpoints, entered the U.S. without so much as a murmur. Now this; tripped up by a 5mm gauge ring closed with a surgical steel ball, a threat to the security of the USA. I tried another tack; couldn't they just satisfy themselves as to what it was somehow? Talk to someone, frisk me, even look? Apparently not. "We can't look, we're not allowed" I was told. Stalemate. I asked to see a supervisor and one of the agents, clearly at the end of his own limited repertoire of skills, called for one. The crowd looked on; I looked bemused. The supervisor when he arrived was like a breath of fresh air, by comparison. A little more switched on, he was clearly able to, er...think outside the box (I know, I'll get me coat). Having been appraised of the situation, he made a suggestion to his agents: "You don't need to satisfy yourselves as to the look, feel or even existence of this gentleman's piercing", he told them, apalled. "You're here to make sure he isn't carrying anything that could threaten the security of the aircraft or its passengers! Do you think you can do that without embarrassing the man any further? " A light went on over one of the agent's faces and whilst he set about patting me down to satisfy himself there was no gun in my belt, his colleague asked me if he could search my wallet. I gave it to him and a thought popped into my head, unbidden even as I saw him open the proffered item: "Light blue touchpaper, stand well back..." My wallet is a three fold affair and the first fold contains a window for an ID card which is occupied by my Press card. A light suddenly went on over his head and I saw his face drop as his eyes clocked my camera kit, my Press card...and his brain made the connection. "You're a journalist?" he asked almost wishing it not to be true. I nodded. "Be nice about us, won't you?" he asked, laughing nervously. "I'll tell the truth" I offered, and suddenly, they couldn't have been more different. They packed my things back up, handing me my possessions. Finally, they both reached to shake my hand. "Sorry for any misunderstanding" was the last thing I heard as I walked away to a round of applause from the impromptu audience. Which is how my journey home came to be known as "How I got the Clap from a Prince Albert" And whilst revenge might be a dish best served cold, I can understand their intentions, however misguided they were in application. That said, the TSA is in a mess; embarrassing delays and inept procedures such as banning lighters and matches are merely the tip of the iceberg and they do need to be brought to a wider audience. I was on the phone to the editor of a magazine earlier about something completely unrelated and mentioned what had happened in conversation. He's asked me for 600 words about it for the news next week. |
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15.4.05 12:37 |
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SHOT BBC CORRESPONDENT BACK AT WORK
BBC Security correspondent Frank Gardner returned to work today, 10 months after he was shot by militants in Saudi Arabia. He has given a chilling and graphic account to the BBC of exactly what it was like to be hit by the six bullets, which almost ended his life. His colleague, cameraman Simon Cumbers, was killed in the same attack.
What follows is Frank's own account of what happened on that evening, and his long road to recovery:
"I have often wondered what it feels like to be shot, but I never expected to find out firsthand. I now know that there is a massive difference between a gunshot wound to a non-vital part of the body and one to the central, visceral core.
The first bullet that hit me on that fateful Sunday afternoon in Riyadh last June went clean through my shoulder. I remember it felt like a bee sting, nothing more. But the bullers that were pumped methodically into me at point-blank range by al-Qaeda's fanatical militants shook my body to the core. Each hit felt like a giant hand was picking me up and slamming me down onto the tarmac.
Amazingly it didn't hurt at first. But minutes later, when my attackers had left me for dead and the adrenaline had begun to wear off, the pain became unspeakable. To this day I don't know how I didn't black out.
Over the past few weeks I have been finding out more about what happened to me in surgery once I was driven by the Riyadh police to an under-equipped local hospital. Had I not been rescued by an expert team from the King Faisal Specialist Hospital, led by the brilliant South African trauma surgeon Dr Peter Bautz, I would have been dead within two hours.
While I had willed myself to stay conscious until I got to the operating table the damage done by the six bullets was already starting to close my body down. My heart was pumping blood to only the vital organs, I had lost huge amounts of blood and my temperature had dropped dangerously to 30C. I went into something called DIC, Disseminated Intravascular Coagulation, where the whole body starts to clot. I am told it is one of the last things before death and I was only saved by massive doses of a miracle drug called Activated Factor 7.
Even so, after 12 operations and 8 months in hospital my wounds have left me officially disabled, in a wheelchair now after my spinal nerves were severed by the gunshot wounds. As well as learning more about my rescue from the brink of death I have also learned more recently about the cell that attacked me and my cameraman, Simon Cumbers, who was killed.
As part of the group calling itself 'Al-Qaeda in the Arabian Peninsular', the gunmen were linked to those who carried out the massacre at Al-Khobar a week earlier. One week after our attack they kidnapped an American helicopter technician, Paul Johnson, and beheaded him alive on camera, keeping his head in the family freezer in one of their Riyadh 'safehouses'. They also filmed themselves murdering another American expatriate at around the same time, shooting him on the ground in his garage despite his pleas for mercy.
Since then, the Saudi authorities have engaged in numerous shootouts with the militants, killing many of the key figures and uncovering large caches of arms and explosives. Right now, the insurgency is thought to be on the back foot, with the Saudi security services gaining in confidence and skill. But such is the fanaticism and determination of the militants that another attack on either westerners or even on one of the royal princes is still a distinct possibility."
You can see him talking to the BBC's Fiona Bruce about the events that left him fighting for his life on tomorrow evening's Real Story, to be broadcast on BBC1 at 23:15. He was also interviewed on 'Hard Talk' yesterday - that interview is available online from the BBC here. Edit: There's a heart-wrenching interview with Frank in today's Guardian G2 Section, available online here. Well worth reading if you can take the time to do so. |
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18.4.05 14:01 |
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BLOGGERS AND CONFESSIONAL JOURNALISTS: QUEUE HERE
I meant to post this a couple of months ago when I first stumbled across it, but what with my various trips overseas, it kind of slipped my mind. My entry on Friday regarding my Prince Albert and its part in my delay in leaving the U.S though brought it to my mind again, so here it is. I didn't write it - but I wish I had; it's a short, well-written piece of naval-gazing copy filed by freelance journalist and Guardian writer, Tanya Gold back in February in which she explains how she has made a living out of writing about the most personal elements of her life. Live, and get paid for it - the ultimate in minimalist chic. Take away the bit about getting paid for it, and what she writes could equally apply to anybody in the blogosphere. The row with your partner, the hangover or the orgasm that you had this morning, the snide comments you made about your co-workers - all are grist to the mill for the average blogger. Those of us able to earn money from the introspective mutterings we commit to a screen, for publication in any of the tens of thousands of worldwide publications willing to pay for what we write now have a name: Confessional Journalists. Take it away then, Tanya Gold: "Stop me. Stop me now. Do you really want to hear about my orgasm, my flip-flops, my weekend? That once I had a penguin with rotating flippers called Pengy? That I love Jaffa Cakes but I am indifferent to Hobnobs? That I bite my toenails? No - I mustn't. We mustn't. My psychotherapist wouldn't like it. Five hundred pounds, you say? My name is Tanya and I am a confessional journalist. I live in a newspaper. I have a one bedroom paragraph, an ensuite metaphor, power spelling and - I am powerless.
Had an orgasm this morning? Write 300 words for deadline, cheque's in the post!
How did it happen? How did a nice Jewish girl from suburbia become a confessional journalist? Is it genetic? Triggered by trauma? Can I be cured or at least slowed down? Can I become a recovering confessional journalist who reaches out to others? Can I take the hand of a woman who has just filed "Woke up, had a wank, thought, 'O fuck its column day'." to Prospect and ease her in her shame? Confessioniasis is not a moral defect. It is a cumulative disease which can afflict any journalist, including Vogue people and editors of the Daily Telegraph. It begins subtly with a few casual commissions. Then, a few bombshells later, you are auto-revelating with full blown confessioniasis. You have the all the pitiless symptoms: exhibitionism; masochism; solipsism; sloth and greed. You particularly crave disaster, trauma and death; only it's not called life, it's called "good copy". Everything you are, were, may be, or might be, is chucked in an email and sold.
Every crisis is potentailly lucrative. Divorce is wonderful. The death of a loved one is marvellous, particularly if it's suicide. I am mugged? I thank the muggers and hold page 2. Raped? Sorry, but it is a cover story. Pregnancy is always good. You can do 2,000 words on abortion for deadline or have a child, which may produce hundreds of thousands of words of copy on its own, particularly if it's a prodigy or - whisper it gravely - a terminal disease. In the Silly Season, consider murdering someone. You may get a mandatory life sentence, but you will also get a slot in the New Statesman. Airplane crashes, bombs, black eyes, famines, war; the confessional hack loves them all. Please don't misunderstand me. I'm not an ambulance chaser. I'm an ambulance.
What is the prognosis for us? Some will recover and go on to lead semi-normal lives in Comment, Sport or News. Others, like Hunter S Thompson, will run out of life to plagiarise and shoot themselves. But most of us will refuse help and revelate limply onwards, hoping for a hell with internet terminals and an interesting disease (not prostate cancer; everyone has that) to share with you, dear reader, at the end." Do you recognise yourself in there? What constraints do you put on your blogging where your own life is concerned? Do you consider any areas taboo or out of bounds where your own life is concerned, or is it all fair game? Do tell, I'm curious. |
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19.4.05 11:25 |
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HAVING YOUR CAKE AND EATING IT: THE BECKHAMS v THE TABLOID PRESS
Despite my profession, I'm no fan of the tabloid press in this country - as a journalist, I've built a career on news reportage, columns and features, but it's a world away from the excesses and faux-news that the red top tabloids have made their own. I find the gloating and self-satisfied, smug prurience of the tabloids and their obsession with celebrity revolting. There's nothing edifying, or newsworthy about Charlotte Church falling over outside a night club and showing her knickers to the gathered papparazi; and the blow-by-blow accounts of the sexual mores of some or other low-rent celeb by a spurned lover does nothing to bolster British society, or bandage the wounds of our immeasurably coarsened public life. How on earth did this non-story about the sexual appetite of Sam, a female competitor in ITV's Hell's Kitchen make the papers yesterday? What have we gained from a strapline that tell us, "Saucepot Samantha Ramplin has an insatiable appetite for celebrity fellas according to her estranged hubby"?. That said however, I have no sympathy for David and Victoria Beckham either, following their failed bid to secure a High Court injunction against the News of the World at the weekend. As a result, the newspaper went ahead and printed allegations by their former nanny, published across seven pages, in the paper's late edition yesterday. The couple had sought an injunction from the duty high court judge, Mr Justice Langley on Saturday night, claiming that the nanny, Abbie Gibson, 27, was in breach of a confidentiality clause in her contract.
The judge decided to let the story go ahead after a 90-minute hearing, ruling that it was in the public interest. The court had to balance the public interest in disclosure against the public interest in preserving confidences. Case law going back three decades makes it clear that "hypocrisy" on the part of the subjects of the story is enough to prevent them keeping a lid on unwelcome revelations.
The News of the World claimed that the couple had come close to "breaking point" and that David Beckham had enjoyed a sexual relationship with Danielle Heath, 23, his wife's former beautician. The story gave details of alleged extramarital affairs involving David Beckham, and claimed that Ms Gibson had witnessed a series of rows between the celebrity couple. Ms Gibson claimed that at Christmas Beckham told his wife he wanted to split up with her.
The Beckhams have made millions from their celebrity and are no strangers to the media, having courted various newspapers and magazines over the years to suit their ends. Victoria Beckham has invited TV camera into her life to record her every move, and after details of David Beckham's alleged affair with Rebecca Loos broke last year, made a great show of denying there was any threat to their marriage, even going as far as displaying affection to her husband before waiting photographers in the days immediately after the story broke. She's readily paraded her children before the cameras and painted an image to the public of a rock-solid, perfect marriage.
If a newspaper uncovers evidence that shows those claims to be lies, it's a little disingenuous of the Beckhams to seek to gag publication of the story. Newspapers - and the tabloid press in particular - are not magazines, there to serve the interests of celebrities. As the Beckhams know to their cost, courting the tabloid press is a little like sticking your arm into the lions' den.
Several years ago, I was the plaintiff in a libel action. At the time, I'd been warned by my legal team that in libel trials, the defence often seeks to destroy the reputation of the plaintiff by looking for evidence to disprove their integrity - after all, a person of unsound or questionable morals can't really be libelled. In the event, the defendants in my case settled out of court, but I knew of the potential pitfalls when I embarked on the action and was prepared to accept them.
The Beckhams, it seems, want to have it all their own way. It seems that they, or their legal team misjudged the mood of the court in launching their bid to gag the News of the World. They too have sued for libel - over an article which said their marriage was going through a rough patch - and that case is due up in court later this year. It must have been in the judge's mind on Saturday that you've got them willing to put the state of their marriage on public display in a courtroom and have it picked over forensically by QCs and a jury.
The judge made no decision on the issue of whether or not Ms Gibson had breached her duty of confidentiality to the Beckhams. According to the News of the World, its counsel, Richard Spearman, QC, persuaded the judge that its story was "in the clear public interest" and it went ahead and published the story in later editions of Sunday's paper.
Celebrity is a vapid concept. There's no question that David Beckham is an inordinately talented footballer possessed of extraordinary good looks. He's made a fortune in his own right from companies willing to pay for his talents, or to put his name to their products. But Victoria Beckham's relentless pursuit of the media - first to support her failing pop career and then simply to support her profile - has won her few friends. She's brought this upon herself.
None of this, of course, tackles the wider issue of tabloid excess. The papers will argue that they only cover stories of sexual indiscretion and publish 'Kiss-and-tell Exclusives' because it's what readers want. But it's also true too, that people will continue to buy newspapers regardless. I'm not in favour of privacy laws to protect the famous analogous to those that exist in France; there, the balance goes too much the other way. But some Britain's tabloid editors should perhaps pay more attention to the contribution their papers are making to Britain's moral decline.
What do you think? Should the Beckhams have been granted an injunction? Or do you think the News of the World was justified in printing the allegations? |
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25.4.05 12:43 |
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