Quintin Jardine's blog

Amidst all the NoW rumpus, it occurs to me there’s a point that is being completely overlooked.

If it’s that easy to hack into our phones and manipulate voice mail,  shouldn’t our telecommunications providers be apologising every bit as loudly as James Murdoch, (I don’t think his dad ever apologised for anything in his sinister old life) and taking equally vigorous and public action to get their houses in order?

I read a strange piece today in the Sunday Herald to which I subscribe on line, by one Paul Hutcheon. It’s an earnest essay, well motivated I’m sure, in which Mr Hutcheon condemns the phone-hacking activities of the News of the World, yet applauds the ‘technical transgression’ (many people would call it theft) that led  to the Telegraph’s lauded parliamentary expenses expose, and seems to suggest that if journalists had hacked into the phones of Richard Nixon and his cronies they would have been seen as heroes. If he really believes that, he’s making the case for greater media accountability, not opposing it.

However that’s by-the-by. At the beginning of his essay, Mr Hutcheon refers to a friend whose constant railing against the media makes him want to hit the chap. Funny, isn’t it, that a man can rant about freedom of speech and expression, yet feel violent to those who exercise it. Well, get this Paul. Early in your piece there is a reference to press officers. After beginning my professional life as a working  journalist, I was one of those. I did my job honourably, honestly and in all that time I never, no,  rarely said a word that I knew to be an untruth, the only exceptions being when I worked in politics and declared that my by-election candidate was going to win when I knew that he was as fit for purpose as a chocolate tea-pot and had as much chance of survival when put to the test. The great majority of my colleagues were as conscientious as I tried to be, and remained calm even in the face of the occasional abuse which came our way from Mr Hutcheon’s equivalents of that era. Thinking journalists recognise that press officers are there to help them not to obstruct them, but many, too many, are antipathetic. I know this and I lived with it for all the time I was in that profession. But when I read a journalist describing my successors as ‘snakelike’, well, I’m not having that. Mr Hutcheon sometimes feels like hitting his pal? In that case he’ll understand how I’m feeling now. As well we’re in different countries, for I might not be as restrained as him.

A standalone featuring him? Now that is an interesting idea, and one that hadn’t occurred to me. Thanks for that and everything else.

In conversation with my daughter the other day, she asked me what I thought of the News of the World scandal. It didn’t take me long to come up with an answer. I told her that it made me think of a great ship captured by pirates.

When I was a young man, enjoying my time in local journalism alongside real reporters like David Bell, John McCalman, Isobel Craigie and Tom ‘The Judge’ Christie, the NoW was a mighty organ. Yes, it was the News of the Screws even then, but it was a powerful broadsheet with class and elan, and it was a popular stop on the career ladder. Not only that, it was, or had been, the biggest selling newspaper in the world, with a peak weekly sale of over 8.4m copies. It started flying under the Jolly Roger in 1968, when Rupert Murdoch won control from Robert Maxwell. Maybe the lesser of two evils, but an evil nonetheless. From that point on, it diminished; the stuff we’re hearing about now wasn’t the beginning of its moral bankruptcy. For example, yesterday I heard Brian May, of Queen, claim that its people tried to take photographs through Freddy Mercury’s toilet window when he was approaching his AIDS-related death.  For me its death-knell began to sound in 1984 when it became a tabloid. The last bell will ring on Sunday and that will be that.

Damn few people will be sorry to see it go in its present form, yet the manner of its passing wrankles with me. The ship hasn’t been sunk, it’s been scuttled. The rats are in the lifeboat and the crew have been left to drown. There was an immediate alternative to its closure, one that would have probably been enough to keep the advertisers on board and allow its rehabilitation. It is astonishing to me, and as far as I can see to every person outside the News International boardroom and perhaps the Brooks household, that the person who was at the helm at the beginning of the final phase of impropriety and who is currently group CEO, can remain in post. Rebekah will stay, but Colin Myler, the highly respected editor and his staff, the majority of whom are newcomers and were not involved in the scandals, will be unemployed on Monday.

This has given rise to innumerable sideshows. The ‘arrest’ of Andy Coulson, for one. (A necessary legal formality leaked by the police. Why? Good question.) His summary trial and conviction for unstated crimes by the likes of Nick Robinson and Robert Peston of the BBC, which is doing all it can to undermine the proposed 100% acquisition of BSkyB by NewsCorp. Robinson and other self-interested journalists, pillorying Dave Cameron for employing Coulson, when that actually has nothing to do with teh central issues involved. The creepy Ed Millipede jumping on the bandwagon, when the predecessors he served slavishly were so far up the Murdochs they could barely pop out for air. The Metropolitan Police being allowed to investigate itself following allegations of bribery by the News of the World.

This is all beyond fiction. I doubt if J K Rowling, or even Sir Terry Pratchett could have made up this lot up.

I have never taken a recreational drug, other than alcohol, at any time in my life. That said, I’m a member of a minority group of believers that such substances should be decriminalised. We live in an era where human rights are valued and protected by international agreements, yet our society continues to pass an enforce laws determining what individuals may or may not inject, inhale or ingest. If these were set aside, and all drugs were treated as are tobacco and alcohol, i. e. legitimised and taxed, the revenues they would generate, and the vast amounts that are currently spent on the pursuit, prosecution and punishment of users and suppliers would be saved to be used for the betterment of society. This might include health education on the dangers of abuse of these products, and if so, fair enough.

However there is one area of drug abuse where the issues are less clear cut, and that is in professional sport. I came across an interesting blog on the BBC website this morning. Worth a read.

http://www.bbc.co.uk/blogs/tomfordyce/2011/07/inside_the_anti-doping_system_3.html

I understand your question, GD, and I can only be frank with you. It’s like this. I write one Skinner a year. Even if they were published as soon as they were finished, I’d still only write one a year so nothing would change, apart from the fact that they’d have even more spelling errors than they have already. Could I do more? Maybe, but I’d have to stop doing Primavera or any standalones. I’d also drive my wife and everyone around me, absolutely crazy. And that’s the bottom line, ‘cos Stone Cold said so.

This afternoon’s selection on the iPod at siesta time was Elaine Bookbinder, later and better known as Elkie Brooks. The Elk is in danger of becoming a forgotten treasure, but that’s what she is. She doesn’t record much these days, but she’s touring this year. In November she’s in Alnwick Playhouse, not far from where the in-laws live. Are you listening, bruv?

An every time question at my gigs is this: If Skinner was adapted for TV who would you want to play him?

Answer: Idris Elba.

When I say that, mostly the audiences smile, and nod, knowingly. Then I explain who he is, and most of them nod a lot harder. Having just watched the conclusion of the terrific second series of Luther on BBC1, my conviction is even firmer that he’s the man for the part. In a TV adaptation, skin tone and accent don’t matter a damn. You want the man who can present your character most powerfully; you want the best actor out there in that type of role. And Idris is the man.

A very talented acquaintance of mine launched a new exhibition at the weekend in Torroella de Montgri.

Home

Check him out if you have a moment. There are three language options, Catalan being the original, but you can also study in Spanish or English.

Just spent a nice afternoon break, listening to Emmylou and Mark Knopfler, then the first few songs fromJohn R Cash’s American Recordings. I’ll save the rest for tomorrow.

Sunday evening, went with friends to a new (to us) restaurant in EstarTit, called Mont Pla.

Having eaten out on Saturday and been sadly disappointed, I chose the same menu as the night before and was even more disappointed. Not because it was worse, but because it was unrecognisably better. I’m saying nothing here , because of a loyalty of which I’m rather proud, but maybe the message will get through.

Okay, I was wrong. It went the full distance. But only because the Hayemaker was less ‘chinny’ than most people thought, and because Wladimir was as cautious as he’s always been. The lesson to be drawn from the ‘fight of the year’ is that world boxing needs to take a look at its weight limits. The Kiltschkos are both around two metres tall and weigh 250 lbs, and they are no longer exceptional; some of the younger guys coming through are bigger than them. While Muhammad Ali would have had both of the brothers for breakfast weighing in at around the same as Haye did, he was once in a life-time, the best ever. With the heavyweight category beginning at 200lbs, a weight that Haye made comfortably only three years ago, the system is encouraging dangerous mismatches. Surely it’s time for the sanctioning bodies to get together and raise it.

As for Haye, ironically he and Wladimir are in the same boat thanks to his defeat. If he had won, a rematch would have drawn serious money. Now, neither of them could find an opponent against whom they could fill a phone box. Still, the £20m they are expected to share will be some consolation to them both.

This will be a bad weekend for British sport, in terms of results. Yesterday, Andy Murray did his best but lost to the best all-round tennis player in the game. Today I’m sure that David Haye will give it his all against the slightly smaller and younger of the two giant Klitschko brothers, but he has no chance. He won’t get near big Wladimir, and when he comes into range himself as he will have to, that will be that; fight will be over, summon medical assistance. Klitschko, inside two rounds, definitivo.

This time tomorrow, meaningful world-level heavyweight boxing will be a thing of the past. Wlad and Vitali will have nobody left to fight other than each other, and their mum won’t let them.

I’m glad you finally got round to writing. Two years ahead of me in Elmbank Street, you say. Would have have been in Muir Austin’s year? So far I’ve never made it further north than Ottawa, but if I ever get to Montreal, I’ll look you up.

There are five restaurants in St Marti d’Empuries, where the Primavera Blackstone mysteries are based. Every one of them is very good. Four out of the five serve top-class pizza and pasta alongside more traditional menus, and every weekend from now till  the end of the high summer season, you will have to queue for a table at each of  those. One does not, and there is no queue outside. This is bad in one respect, for the wealth and morale of Can Roura’s owner and chef, Joan Malé, and good in another, for it means I can usually find a table every time I go there, which is often. Eileen and I ate there last night, with our friends John and Pat, who had never been there before but will go back. It’s easy to introduce friends to Joan’s place, for you know that he will never let you down. I have eaten in Michelin star restaurants in Scotland and Spain; Can Roura is up there with any of them and better than some and its prices are almost embarrassingly reasonable.

I will not be happy until I have to queue there for a table on a Friday or Saturday, but that can’t happen without the summer denizens of L’Escala-Empuries and its surrounding camp-sites fighting against their inexplicable pizza addiction hysteria and exploring the alternative. This is my challenge to them; yes, eat in Meson del Conde, eat in La Terrassa d’Empuries, eat in L’Esculapi , and eat in Can Coll. You’ll be well fed in every one of them. But make sure you eat also in Can Roura; I guarantee that you’ll want to go back.

That’s a major compliment, Lisa, thanks. May you have a long and successful career, but try not to marry anyone named McDermid. If you bump into Skinner at Fettes, please tell him I’ll need to see him again in a few months, but that I’m heavily involved with a forty-something single mother at the moment.

You want to know what happens next with Alex and Andy? To be honest, so do I. You can never tell with that pair.

Hello again Isla. The next Primavera will be called ‘As Easy as Murder’. It’ll be on the shelves next January.