Marr’s hypocrisy is exposed

The BBC presenter probed into Gordon Brown’s private life while concealing his own.

Andrew Marr today admitted what anyone with access to an internet connection has known for years: that he obtained a superinjunction in 2008 to prevent the press reporting on his extramarital affair. Yet until 2009, when Private Eye launched a successful challenge, the mainstream media were banned from revealing even the existence of the injunction.

As the Eye reported at the time:

So it was last year when Andrew Marr won an injunction to stop the media revealing "private information" about him – and to stop them revealing that he'd stopped them. Marr himself was on record arguing against a judge-made privacy law and calling for a public debate on the subject. Any such debate should include some reference to the effect of superinjunctions; yet Marr's, like many others these days, was so draconian that one couldn't mention its existence. Nor were we allowed to know on what grounds it had been given. After a long struggle by Lord Gnome's lawyers, the order was varied so that we could at least say that he'd obtained it, while not repeating the story he wished to suppress.

The only reason Marr has now gone public in the Daily Mail (thus placating one of his fiercest critics) is to head off a challenge by Private Eye to the ordinary injunction. Unsurprisingly, the Eye editor, Ian Hislop, didn't pull his punches on this morning's Today programme, attacking the injunction as "pretty rank" and "hypocritical".

Hislop was referring to the BBC presenter's apparent opposition to judge-made privacy law. But, as Stephen Tall argues, Marr's greatest offence was his decision to give voice to internet smears and ask Gordon Brown whether he was using "prescription painkillers and pills". Marr's attempt to probe into Brown's private life, while using the courts to protect his own, was neither morally nor professionally acceptable.

He may now argue, conveniently enough, that superinjunctions are "out of control". The question remains, however: if an exception is made for one, why not an exception for all?

George Eaton is political editor of the New Statesman.

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For the first time in my life I have a sworn enemy – and I don’t even know her name

The cyclist, though, was enraged. “THAT’S CLEVER, ISN’T IT?” she yelled. “WALKING IN THE ROAD!”

Last month, I made an enemy. I do not say this lightly, and I certainly don’t say it with pride, as a more aggressive male might. Throughout my life I have avoided confrontation with a scrupulousness that an unkind observer would call out-and-out cowardice. A waiter could bring the wrong order, cold and crawling with maggots, and in response to “How is everything?” I’d still manage a grin and a “lovely, thanks”.

On the Underground, I’m so wary of being a bad citizen that I often give up my seat to people who aren’t pregnant, aren’t significantly older than me, and in some cases are far better equipped to stand than I am. If there’s one thing I am not, it’s any sort of provocateur. And yet now this: a feud.

And I don’t even know my enemy’s name.

She was on a bike when I accidentally entered her life. I was pushing a buggy and I wandered – rashly, in her view – into her path. There’s little doubt that I was to blame: walking on the road while in charge of a minor is not something encouraged by the Highway Code. In my defence, it was a quiet, suburban street; the cyclist was the only vehicle of any kind; and I was half a street’s length away from physically colliding with her. It was the misjudgment of a sleep-deprived parent rather than an act of malice.

The cyclist, though, was enraged. “THAT’S CLEVER, ISN’T IT?” she yelled. “WALKING IN THE ROAD!”

I was stung by what someone on The Apprentice might refer to as her negative feedback, and walked on with a redoubled sense of the parental inadequacy that is my default state even at the best of times.

A sad little incident, but a one-off, you would think. Only a week later, though, I was walking in a different part of town, this time without the toddler and engrossed in my phone. Again, I accept my culpability in crossing the road without paying due attention; again, I have to point out that it was only a “close shave” in the sense that meteorites are sometimes reported to have “narrowly missed crashing into the Earth” by 50,000 miles. It might have merited, at worst, a reproving ting of the bell. Instead came a familiar voice. “IT’S YOU AGAIN!” she yelled, wrathfully.

This time the shock brought a retort out of me, probably the harshest thing I have ever shouted at a stranger: “WHY ARE YOU SO UNPLEASANT?”

None of this is X-rated stuff, but it adds up to what I can only call a vendetta – something I never expected to pick up on the way to Waitrose. So I am writing this, as much as anything, in the spirit of rapprochement. I really believe that our third meeting, whenever it comes, can be a much happier affair. People can change. Who knows: maybe I’ll even be walking on the pavement

Mark Watson is a stand-up comedian and novelist. His most recent book, Crap at the Environment, follows his own efforts to halve his carbon footprint over one year.

This article first appeared in the 20 October 2016 issue of the New Statesman, Brothers in blood