Hey, thanks to Mr Foster. I share your concern. I’d love to be widely availablen in German, and I have a good man working at that on my behalf.
I began my working life on a newspaper, but before that I studied law for a while. Not much of it stuck, but the basics did. For example, the presumption of innocence, and the right of every accused to a trial before a fair-minded jury, unfettered by any knowledge of the detail of the case. That knowledge informed my time as a journalist. In those days we were careful about what was said about anyone arrested, and once a charge was laid, that was it.
Has something changed when I wasn’t looking? Has the American practice of aggressive, prejudicial investigation been introduced to Britain? I ask this because what’s been reported in the wake of the arrest in the Yates murder enquiry is beginning to resemble trial by media. I haven’t done a trawl of the English press. So far I’ve only looked at the Torygraph, but I have no doubt that it’s typical, and I don’t like what I see. Its story suggests that the arrested man was the last person to see Ms Yeates alive, and adds that he is the only suspect in the case. It leads with the allegation that he helped the victim’s partner ‘fix his car, so he could drive to Sheffield’. But read on, and you’ll find that what unnamed neighbours say is merely that he came up with a set of jump leads, and that he wasn’t alone in the helping. If I was a juror I wouldn’t see that as tantamount to ‘fixing’ and I wouldn’t take it to imply exclusive knowledge that the bloke was going away for the weekend and that the victim would be alone in her flat. The report also quotes pupils at the school where he taught as saying that he is a fan of dark and violent avant garde films. Wait a minute! He retired in 2001; he could have moved on to Pixar animation by now. But even if he hasn’t, if that unsubstantiated foible from ten years back counts as evidence, hey, lock me up too, for I watched ElectraGlide in Blue last night. To be fair to the Torygraph, it does offer ‘defence’ evidence also, by citing a neighbour who points out that the arrested man is slightly built, and who suggests that he would not have been strong enough to do what has been suggested.
They’ll sell some newspapers on the back of it, no question. That’s what they’re there to do, and I’m not going to blame them for it. No, what I find disturbing is the way in which information has flowed to the media, and its source. The feeding frenzy was started by the police, when they made their arrest and then removed, very publicly, two cars, and a large quantity of material from the man’s home. They don’t appear to have said very much on the record, but the ‘lone suspect’ titbit could only have come from one place, and on what we used to call a ‘non-attributable basis’ in my media days. What’s happened? The cops are under pressure for an early result, a suspect has fallen into their laps, and they’re steering the media towards him. Simples.
All of which takes me back to the presumption of innocence. I can’t recall a British case in which it has been more conspicuously absent. I find myself hoping that the police do charge this man, almost for his sake. If they don’t, if the forensic evidence proves his innocence, not his guilt, and he’s released? I’ll bet Max Clifford has his mobile number already.
Today’s issue of the Torygraph also quotes our foreign secretary as expressing concern over the handling of the Khodorovsky case in Russia. Maybe he should ensure that his own house is clean before criticising others.
Fortunately, I believe the New Year Honours List is past praying for as far as the England cricket team is concerned. In any event you are right. Best wait for another few days, in the hope that you can grind their faces deeper in the dust. But when you do so, remember that they have a long history of being better than you and will surely rebound. They may even win the last test and square the series, although at the moment the odds on a draw are better than those on an Aussie victory. Even if that happens, the triumphalism will only be toned down a little, and the Barmy Army will sing just as loud. (Why is it that at the heart of such gatherings you will always find a tosser in a tall hat, making the most noise?) You can bet that among all the media praise, little mention will be made of the significant South African contribution to the current England batting line-up. Take Pietersen, Prior, Strauss and Trott out of the picture and the result might have been different. Okay, you can keep the captain and the wicket-keeper, but KP only left South Africa in a huff, and Trott played for them at Under 15 and Under 19 level. But let’s not be churlish; England’s success is meritorious, if for nothing else, because it will force Kevin Bloody Wilson to re-write his notorious song, They Beat Me.
I haven’t bought George W Bush’s autobiography yet, but I will, once I get to the end of the Kindle sampler. I have to get deeper into the mind of a man who admits to killing his kid sister’s goldfish by pouring vodka into its bowl. I suspect that if Osama had read that story, he’d have thought several times before messing with him.
Do I have plans for a new Bob Skinner? No, but I do for the old one, beginning with Grievous Angel next June. That’ll be after the publication in March of The Loner, in which he also plays a significant, although not leading, part.
Eddie Sanderson was my oldest close friend. He’s been in my life for fifty years, since he started going out with my cousin. They were married for a while, but when they split, Eddie and I just went on, unimpeded. Forty years ago, he and Liz produced their only child, and it was she who phoned me yesterday to tell me that her dad had passed away on Christmas Day. I’d known he was ill, and so I shouldn’t have been shocked, yet I was, and I still am, because the idea of Big Eddie being dead, just seems, well, absurd, not quite believable.
When Biff and I had composed ourselves, we talked about him for a while, and at one point she said, ‘My dad wasn’t all that keen on Christmas,’ at which I could only chuckle and remark, ‘Well, he’s made his bloody point now.’ For that was him; once he had taken a view about something, or someone, he was pretty much unshakeable. The big fellow liked people for what they were, not what they did, and he was firm on that. Back in the old Lanarkshire days, I introduced him to someone. Later on he told me, quietly, ‘ I didn’t take to that guy.’ ‘Why not?’ ‘Because the first thing he asked me was what I did for a living.’ I understood him; he’d known that the question hadn’t been asked out of interest, but as a valuation. That litmus test was one of many things that he taught me, and it’s something I’ve tried to carry through my own life.
He was a big man in all respects, including kindness and generosity, a footballer in his youth (that’s if you accept that goalkeepers are footballers, as I’d say to him) and a short-swing, big-hitting golfer once those years were over. For all his size he was quiet, and deep, as was his sense of humour, but once you triggered it, he enjoyed a laugh as well as any man I’ve ever known, and better than all but a very few. In my early adult years, he was my main man; when my kids were born, it was with Eddie that I wet their heads. We were good at that, the pair of us; for a period in the late sixties Eddie and Liz, and Irene and I, lived quite close to each other. We had evenings at which brandy shandies were the standard, and later on he was a fixture at major events of ours in Gullane, and often at events of other people . . . even if our tastes in alcohol had matured a little.There was something reassuring about him. I remember being at a midweek football match at the old, huge, unsafe Hampden Park. They’d let way too many people in and, it being a dark night, many others had climbed over the gate or just jumped the turnstiles, as you could in those days. The Mount Florida terracing was a major tragedy waiting to happen. If I hadn’t been with Eddie, I might have bailed out, but I was, so I didn’t. Yet totemic or not, he wasn’t dull, not ever. There were scrapes; he managed to ruin a very expensive suit once, jumping over a fence in the dark. Don’t ask!
Eventually, after not too long on the loose, he found the right woman . . . and for that matter, Liz found the right man, though Wilson’s life was tragically short. (As was Eddie’s, seventy-anything being no age at all for a guy like him.) Una gave him the stable base he always needed, smiled at his quirks and eccentricities, and made the last half of his life as happy as any man could ever want. He became a grandfather too, and there will still be an Edward in the family. He’s inherited his grandpa’s telescope, and he’ll be able to look up at the star that Biff plans to name after her dad. She’ll need to choose a big one.
Thanks, Steve, I know what you mean. If you ever check the Microsoft spell-checker, you’ll be amazed by the number of varieties of the English language it offers. Sadly, though, ‘Weegie’ is not yet among them. Thanks also for the invitation. We were in Chicago a couple of years ago, (indeed, check out my Facebook page and you’ll see some evidence) and I hope very much that it will not be our last visit. Tell me, though, are there any improvement plans for O’Hare? Weird terminal; for all its vastness, I don’t recall another with so few facilities airside.
And here’s to you and yours, GD, from all of us at the Word Factory. Yes, thanks, AJ did get where he was bound, eventually, although he says he’ll never fly Air France again after four hours sitting on the ground in the de-icer queue, during which time the cabin staff didn’t think it necessary to go round with the trolley offering as much as a glass of water to their caged passengers, far less something with a little bite. I have been on aircraft in such situations and been told that it’s against regulations to open the bar until after take-off . . . that is of course, unless you’re travelling Business Class or above in which circs you are hardly in your seat before they’re plying you with strong drink.
A businessman was attending a conference in Africa . He had a free day and wanted to play a round of golf and was directed to a golf course in the nearby jungle. After a short journey, he arrived at the course and asked the pro if he could get on. “Sure,” said the Pro, “What’s your handicap?”
Not wanting to admit that he had an 18 handicap, he decided to cut it a bit. “Well, its 16,” said the businessman, “But what’s the relevance since I’ll be playing alone?”
“It’s very important for us to know,” said the pro, who then called a caddy. “Go out with this gentleman,” said the pro, “his handicap is 16.”
The businessman was very surprised at this constant reference to his handicap. The caddy picked up the businessman’s bag and a large rifle; again the businessman was surprised but decided to ask no questions.
They arrived on the 1st hole, a par 4. “It’s wise to avoid those trees on the left,” said the caddy.
Needless to say, the businessman duck-hooked his ball into the trees. He found his ball and was about to punch it out when he heard the loud crack of the rifle and a large snake fell dead from a tree above his head. The caddy stood next to him with the rifle smoking in his hand.
“That’s the Black Mamba, the most poisonous snake in all Africa . You’re lucky I was here with you.” After taking a bogey, they moved to the 2ndhole, a par 5.
“Good to avoid those bushes on the right,” says the caddy
Of course, the businessman’s ball went straight into the bushes. As he went to pick up his ball, he heard the loud crack of the caddy’s rifle once more, and a huge lion fell dead at his feet.
“I’ve saved your life again,” said the caddy.
The 3rd hole was a par 3 with a lake in front of the green. The businessman’s ball came up just short of the green and rolled back to the edge of the water. To take a shot, he had to stand with one foot in the lake. As he was about to swing, a large crocodile emerged from the water and bit off much of his right leg.
As he fell to the ground bleeding and in great pain, he saw the caddy with the rifle propped at his side, looking on unconcernedly “Why didn’t you kill it?” asked the man incredulously.
“I’m sorry, sir,” said the caddy. “This is the 17th handicap hole. You don’t get a shot here.”
And that, my golfing friends, is why you should never lie about your handicap!!
Here’s the scene: a father searching for his daughter’s Christmas present heads into a toy shop and asks the sales person, ‘How much for one of those Barbie’s in the display window?’ The salesperson answers, ‘Which one do you mean, Sir? We have: Work Out Barbie for £19.95, Shopping Barbie for £19.95, Beach Barbie for £19.95, Disco Barbie for £19.95, Ballerina Barbie for £19.95, Astronaut Barbie for £19.95, Skater Barbie for £19.95, and Divorced Barbie for £265.95′.
The amazed father asks: ‘It’s what?! Why is the Divorced Barbie £265.95 and the others only £19.95?’
The salesperson rolls her eyes, sighs, and explains: ‘Sir…, Divorced Barbie comes with: Ken’s Car, Ken’s House, Ken’s Boat, Ken’s Furniture, Ken’s Computer, one of Ken’s Friends, and a key chain made with Ken’s nuts.’
