A raft of British institutions, including members of the royal family, stand accused of being hoodwinked by the eccentric celebrity now revealed as a prolific child sex offender. But so too was the British public.
When Sir Jimmy Savile,
OBE, died last year at the age of 84, the BBC broadcast no fewer than
three tribute programs to one of its most famous figures, while both the
national press and the Royal Family devoted long eulogies to him.
With a public career that spanned 50 years, Savile was more than just a
radio DJ or TV presenter or charity worker: he was a national
institution, and the revelation that he used his role to sexually abuse
minors tarnished many bastions of British society by association.
Savile
shot to fame in the early 1960s, on the back of the Beatles craze and
the explosion of youth culture, and introduced the first edition of the
BBC’s iconic chart show, Top of the Pops, in 1964. Before then
he’d worked as a radio DJ, professional sportsman, and coal miner. With
his shock of long white hair, fast Yorkshire patter, and famous demotic
catchphrase (“’Ow’s about that then guys and gals”) Savile carefully
built up an image of postwar classlessness. He drove a Rolls-Royce and
smoked Cuban Cohibas, but wore track suits, medallions, and trainers. He
mixed with rock stars, prime ministers, and royalty, but always tried
be down with the kids on the street or with hospital patients. His
primetime TV show, Jim’ll Fix It, lasted 20 years and
consistently gained the highest ratings. In it, Savile offered to answer
the wishes of children in a fairy godfather–like fashion: for hundreds
those youthful dreams turned into a nightmare.
Though the BBC stands in the dock for promoting Savile’s TV career, not to mention canceling a Newsnight investigation into his child abuse last year, the taint spreads much wider than the public-service broadcaster.
Savile
was a tireless fundraiser, almost single-handedly creating the modern
image of celebrity as charity worker. As a result, he was given
unprecedented access to an array of public institutions. He had rooms at
several NHS hospitals, including the famous spinal injuries unit at
Stoke Mandeville, for which he raised $20 million, at the same time he
allegedly abused helpless young patients. He was so popular at the
country’s main secure psychiatric hospital, Broadmoor, that he called
himself the institution’s “godfather” and was asked to head up a
government task force to overhaul the management of the place in 1988,
while he also sexually molested young, vulnerable inmates.
Savile’s
mixture of Mr. Popular and Mr. Charity made him a welcome figure to
politicians and prime ministers, and he led several public-awareness
campaigns, most famously the ‘clunk click’ ads that explained the
mandatory wearing of car seatbelts. He was a particular favorite of
Margaret Thatcher’s; she reportedly invited him to 11 successive New Year’s dinners at the official country residence at Chequers. According to the historian Eliza Filby, whose social biography of the 1980s, God and Mrs Thatcher, is due to be published next year, “Savile was—as far I know—the only former miner to have dinner with Mrs. T.”
“No
one found him threatening,” Filby told The Daily Beast: “He was the
acceptable face of ’60s counterculture and even made it respectable.”
So
respectable was Savile, a teetotaler and devout Catholic, that he was
made a papal knight by the Vatican, and became a regular visitor to St.
James’s Palace after meeting the Prince of Wales through his charity
work. When Charles’s marriage to Princess Diana hit the rocks in the
late ’80s, the prince astonishingly called in Savile—the renowned
professional bachelor—to provide marriage guidance for both Diana and
Sarah Ferguson.
As Diana revealed in the “Squidygate” tapes
to her friend James Gilbey: “‘Jimmy Savile rang me up yesterday, and he
said: ‘I’m just ringing up, my girl, to tell you that His Nibs [Prince
Charles] has asked me to come and help out the redhead [the Duchess of
York].’”
Prince
Charles led tributes to Savile when he died last year. While there’s no
suggestion the heir apparent had any clue about the celebrity’s
predatory sexuality, Savile did host Charles at his Glen Coe hideaway
with scantily clad waitresses. The same cottage, now daubed with
graffiti calling Savile “a beast,” has been the focus of police
investigations. But Savile’s self-mocking lewdness appeared to deceive
most people: they took it as a joke rather than the strange form of
postmodern irony it really was—Savile hid his predilections in plain
sight.
Beyond
the institutional failures then, several generations of television
watchers and radio listeners were duped by the conman turned showman.
That’s the shiver of recognition that has fascinated and appalled
millions in the last few weeks as archive television footage is
replayed: Savile manhandling underage girls on Top of the Pops, or jokingly divvying up adoring groupies with Gary Glitter on Clunk Click.
The eccentric TV persona, with benefit of 20/20 hindsight, looks
downright creepy. It’s so obvious now, but why wasn’t it then?
Because
of the extent of his crimes, some people knew the truth. But while
rumors abounded, even Britain’s feral tabloid press feared taking on one
of the country’s biggest celebrities. In a 2000 documentary, When Louis Met Jimmy,
Louis Theroux aired the unsaid, and directly asked Savile if he used
the “I don’t like children” line to stop the newspapers pursuing a “Is
he/isn’t he a pedophile?” question. “Yes, yes, yes. Oh, aye,” Savile
responded: “How do they know whether I am or not? How does anybody know
whether I am? Nobody knows whether I am or not. I know I’m not …”
Scotland
Yard’s current investigation into “Savile and others,” Operation
Yewtree, has discovered 400 leads in the last month alone. It has bailed
Gary Glitter for further questioning in December, and more arrests are
still expected. It’s not yet certain whether, as alleged in last week’s Panorama,
Savile was part of anything as coherent as “a pedophile ring at the
BBC.” But his successful exploitation of vulnerable children for so long
raises a bigger question of complicity.
At
the heart of Savile’s corrupt power was the knowledge that the
complaints of victims would be disbelieved, discounted, and repressed. Andrew O’Hagan, writing in the London Review of Books,
blames the institutionalized ethos of the time, which both elevated and
exploited childhood and youth. “The public made Jimmy Savile,” O’Hagan
wrote. “It loved him. It knighted him.”
However,
if some were knowingly complicit or turned a blind eye, most of the
British public has been stunned and disgusted by the revelations of the
last few weeks—a “tsunami of filth” as the head of the BBC Trust, Chris
Patten, recently called it. It’s easy to see Savile as another Charles
Manson or Fred West, the dark face of ’60s sexual liberation, which
became an excuse for predatory men to exploit young girls. But as Eliza
Filby points out, Savile was beloved of the conservative moral majority
who so often decried the “permissive society” in its rock ’n’ roll
manifestation. He was the “uncle” just as the BBC is affectionately
known as “auntie.”
Savile
molded public opinion, but he also clearly manipulated it. Without his
TV fame and his role of gatekeeper to teenagers who wanted to meet rock
stars or young children who wanted to realize their dreams, he never
would have been able to offend so prolifically, and with such impunity.
The Guardian columnist Deborah Orr was one of the first to make
the connection between Savile’s public life and private crimes. “A
paedophile’s grooming process is largely about persuading a victim to
feel that it’s wrong to think badly of him,” she told The Daily Beast,
“In that respect Savile groomed the whole nation.”
With
300 potential victims identified in the last month alone, Savile is the
center of one of the biggest investigations into child abuse in British
history. He allegedly abused relatives, psychiatric patients, victims
of spinal injuries, and even members of his own family. Incredulity and
astonishment enabled his abuse as much as complicity or cover-up. As
Savile told Karin Ward, a pupil at a school for emotionally disturbed
young girls, who threatened to go to the authorities: “No one will
believe you.”
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