Tabloids and the abuse of power

Why there should be a full judicial inquiry into phone hacking.

Anyone caught up in a significant news story from the advent of mobile telephones in the late 1990s to the arrest of Clive Goodman in 2006, and perhaps for some time afterwards, may well have had their phone messages hacked into by tabloid journalists or those working on their behalf. This is because the tabloids had the power to do this, and it is clear this power was widely abused

It would also appear that political pressure was applied to ensure that this activity was never properly investigated. For some unknown reason the Metropolitan Police narrowed and then closed down any competent investigation of this activity when it first came to light. Had the scandal not involved members of the Royal Household, there may have been no prosecutions at all. It is a curious thing - and not, in this instance, an unwelcome one - that the monarchy still has some practical use in public life. It is difficult to bully the Crown.

Power always tends to get abused, and those with absolute power will (logically) face no checks on their abuses. In the view of many people, the trade unions abused their power in the 1960s and 1970s. Others would say that the police have also long abused powers, especially in Northern Ireland in the 1970s, the inner cities and on picket lines in the 1980s, and in respect of public order and "anti-terrorism" matters since 9/11. And there are many other examples, from bankers to libel litigants. Those who have power - especially absolute power in a given situation - will tend to abuse it for the same reason dogs lick themselves: simply because they can.

And because any person can abuse power, there always needs to be checks. The partisan will want the checks only to be for the "other side". Indeed, one good test of partisanship is whether it is openly accepted "your side" can also abuse power, and that it is crucially important to deal with this. The genius of George Orwell and others is their candour that even progressive and well-meaning people need to be held accountable too, whatever the slogans or legitimising constituencies invoked.

There are those who believe the police can do no wrong, or that trade unions can never be faulted. There are even those who will contend that bankers are simply misunderstood. Often this selective blindness comes from some ideological fixation: "they protect the public", "they represent their members", or "the market cannot be bucked". For defenders of the tabloids it will be "freedom of the press" or "giving the public what they want". There is almost always some greater good which is supposedly being served when someone is abusing their power. It is rare, and somehow more frightening, when a figure like Orwell's O'Brien expressly abuses power for its own sake.

Bullying is when the abuse of power is accompanied - or even made possible - by fear. The fear then prevents checks being used, or created to begin with. This fear may be a selfish and personal one: what can the bully do to me? Or it may be a perfectly understandable fear of what would happen to others, whether it be one's family or one's fellow citizens.

What seems to have happened over the last week or two is that some of the fear of tabloids has gone from more politicans. That is good and refreshing, and it is certainly a start. We may have even tipped off that very point where others will now break cover. But such a welcome change of mood may not last, and it actually achieves nothing by itself. What needs to be looked at are effective checks so as to prevent abuses ever happening again.

There needs to be a full and independent judicial inquiry into the whole sordid and sorry mess of tabloid phone hacking, and this inquiry should be open with the evidence (as far as it can be) placed in the public domain. Witnesses should be on oath, and there should be the power to compel evidence. As long as it is managed carefully by a senior judge, there is no necessary reason why it cannot start before the end of any criminal proceedings. We should not have to wait nearly two years or so.

Abuses of power and bullying by any person will corrupt any liberal democracy. But there is an opportunity now to bring one form of bullying to an end, and to seek to prevent the privacy abuses of the tabloids recurring. So please do support the new campaign for a full judicial inquiry, and sign the petition here.

 

David Allen Green is legal correspondent of the New Statesman

David Allen Green is legal correspondent of the New Statesman and author of the Jack of Kent blog.

His legal journalism has included popularising the Simon Singh libel case and discrediting the Julian Assange myths about his extradition case.  His uncovering of the Nightjack email hack by the Times was described as "masterly analysis" by Lord Justice Leveson.

David is also a solicitor and was successful in the "Twitterjoketrial" appeal at the High Court.

(Nothing on this blog constitutes legal advice.)

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The Tinder dating app isn't just about sex – it's about friendship, too. And sex

The lines between sex, love and friendship are blurrier than ever, as I found out quickly while using the app.

The first time I met someone using Tinder, the free dating app that requires users to swipe left for “no” and right for “yes” before enabling new “matches” to chat, it was an unqualified success. I should probably qualify that. I was newly single after five years in a committed relationship and wasn’t looking for anything more than fun, friendship and, well, who knows. A few weeks earlier I had tried to give my number to a girl in a cinema café in Brixton. I wrote it on a postcard I’d been using as a bookmark. She said she had a boyfriend, but wanted to keep the postcard. I had no date and I lost my page.

My Tinder date was a master’s student from Valencia called Anna (her name wasn’t really Anna, of course, I’m not a sociopath). When I arrived at the appointed meeting place, she told me I was far more handsome IRL (“in real life”) than my pictures suggested. I was flattered and full of praise for the directness of continental Europeans but also thought sadly to myself: “If only the same could be said about you.”

Anna and I became friends, at least for a while. The date wasn’t a success in the traditional sense of leading us into a contract based on exclusivity, an accumulating cache of resentments and a mortgage, but it had put me back in the game (an appropriate metaphor – people speak regularly of “playing” with the app).

According to Sean Rad, the co-founder who launched Tinder in late 2012, the service was invented for people like me. “It was really a way to overcome my own problems,” he told the editor of Cosmopolitan at an event in London last month. “It was weird to me, to start a conversation [with a stranger]. Once I had an introduction I was fine, but it’s that first step. It’s difficult for a lot of people.” After just one outing, I’d learned two fundamental lessons about the world of online dating: pretty much everyone has at least one decent picture of themselves, and meeting women using a so-called hook-up app is seldom straightforwardly about sex.

Although sometimes it is. My second Tinder date took place in Vienna. I met Louisa (ditto, name) outside some notable church or other one evening while visiting on holiday (Tinder tourism being, in my view, a far more compelling way to get to know a place than a cumbersome Lonely Planet guide). We drank cocktails by the Danube and rambled across the city before making the romantic decision to stay awake all night, as she had to leave early the next day to go hiking with friends. It was just like the Richard Linklater movie Before Sunrise – something I said out loud more than a few times as the Aperol Spritzes took their toll.

When we met up in London a few months later, Louisa and I decided to skip the second part of Linklater’s beautiful triptych and fast-track our relationship straight to the third, Before Midnight, which takes place 18 years after the protagonists’ first meet in Vienna, and have begun to discover that they hate each others’ guts.

Which is one of the many hazards of the swiping life: unlike with older, web-based platforms such as Match.com or OkCupid, which require a substantial written profile, Tinder users know relatively little about their prospective mates. All that’s necessary is a Facebook account and a single photograph. University, occupation, a short bio and mutual Facebook “likes” are optional (my bio is made up entirely of emojis: the pizza slice, the dancing lady, the stack of books).

Worse still, you will see people you know on Tinder – that includes colleagues, neighbours and exes – and they will see you. Far more people swipe out of boredom or curiosity than are ever likely to want to meet up, in part because swiping is so brain-corrosively addictive.

While the company is cagey about its user data, we know that Tinder has been downloaded over 100 million times and has produced upwards of 11 billion matches – though the number of people who have made contact will be far lower. It may sound like a lot but the Tinder user-base remains stuck at around the 50 million mark: a self-selecting coterie of mainly urban, reasonably affluent, generally white men and women, mostly aged between 18 and 34.

A new generation of apps – such as Hey! Vina and Skout – is seeking to capitalise on Tinder’s reputation as a portal for sleaze, a charge Sean Rad was keen to deny at the London event. Tinder is working on a new iteration, Tinder Social, for groups of friends who want to hang out with other groups on a night out, rather than dating. This makes sense for a relatively fresh business determined to keep on growing: more people are in relationships than out of them, after all.

After two years of using Tinder, off and on, last weekend I deleted the app. I had been visiting a friend in Sweden, and took it pretty badly when a Tinder date invited me to a terrible nightclub, only to take a few looks at me and bolt without even bothering to fabricate an excuse. But on the plane back to London the next day, a strange thing happened. Before takeoff, the woman sitting beside me started crying. I assumed something bad had happened but she explained that she was terrified of flying. Almost as terrified, it turned out, as I am. We wound up holding hands through a horrific patch of mid-air turbulence, exchanged anecdotes to distract ourselves and even, when we were safely in sight of the ground, a kiss.

She’s in my phone, but as a contact on Facebook rather than an avatar on a dating app. I’ll probably never see her again but who knows. People connect in strange new ways all the time. The lines between sex, love and friendship are blurrier than ever, but you can be sure that if you look closely at the lines, you’ll almost certainly notice the pixels.

Philip Maughan is Assistant Editor at the New Statesman.

This article first appeared in the 26 May 2016 issue of the New Statesman, The Brexit odd squad