Suit you, sir: to his adoring young fans, Savile, pictured on the set of Top of the Pops circa 1973, represented wacky style and wish fulfilment. Photo: Michael Putland/Getty Images
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How Jim fixed it: the strange, dark life of Jimmy Savile

It is impossible to look back on the world of light entertainment in the Savile era and not come to the conclusion that it was strikingly weird.

In Plain Sight: the Life and Lies of Jimmy Savile 
Dan Davies
Quercus, 592pp, £18.99

Dan Davies, whose uneasy fascination with Jimmy Savile began when he was a boy, has said that, to a degree, his book tells the story of his childhood – that for those who grew up in the Seventies and Eighties Savile was a “Wizard of Oz-like figure” who “possessed the power to dispense happiness”. I don’t regard this as an exaggeration. I wrote to Jim’ll Fix It, the show that promised to make children’s dreams come true, twice. The first time – I would have been tiny – I asked to meet Cliff Richard. The second, older if not wiser, I wanted to edit a newspaper. I pictured myself behind a typewriter, furiously banging away at the keys. Savile’s air of menace didn’t bother me (like Davies, I certainly sensed it, even as I longed to sit on the arm of his “robotic” chair; doubtless many other children did, too). I wanted my moment. I wanted to feel that cheap ribbon on the back of my neck as he lowered a Jim’ll Fix It badge ceremonially over my head.

In the Seventies, children were ignored more than they are now; in families such as mine, northern and aspirational, “showing off” was a great sin. Adults were always right; children almost never were. It’s because of this that Jim’ll Fix It had such potency for us – Be an adult for a day! Show off all you like! – and it goes some way, too, towards explaining why in his lifetime the presenter was never unmasked as the prolific abuser he was. Again and again, Davies notes that when children did try to explain what Savile had done to them, they were met only with disapproval and disbelief.

Indignant adults, let alone furious ones, are thin on the ground in this tale; even those in possession of information they could not ignore were stymied by the attitudes of the times. Vera McAlpine, whose daughter Claire killed herself in 1971 aged 15, leaving behind a diary in which she revealed that she’d had sex with two radio DJs (Savile may have been one), later told the Guardian that she should have contacted the police when she first read the journal a month before Claire’s death. “But I thought they would be more severe with my daughter than they would with the DJs,” she said, a lament that is no easier to read for knowing that she was almost certainly right.

Oh, the times! It’s dumb and distorting to see the past only through the prism of the present. As Joan Bakewell told the writer Andrew O’Hagan: “You just can’t get into the culture of what it was like, transfer our sensibilities backwards from today. It would be like asking Victorian factory owners to explain why they sent children up chimneys . . . What we now find unacceptable was just accepted back then by many people.” (Savile, whom she found “repellent”, once tried to get her to go to his hotel room.) But still, it is impossible to look back on the world of light entertainment in the Savile era and not come to the conclusion that it was strikingly weird, and that this weirdness, which most of us relished and begged to be allowed to stay up late to enjoy, gave licence to, perhaps even slyly facilitated, a great deal of misery.

As I read Davies’s book, the term “light entertainment” suddenly struck me as the greatest joke. What a misnomer. It wasn’t light at all. It was dark and heavy: clod­hopping at best, sinister at worst. All the programmes I enjoyed most as a child came with heavy doses of innuendo, low-level violence, sadomasochism. There was Dick Emery, who dressed up as a sexually frustrated spinster – at the time I didn’t know what frottage was, except I sort of did, thanks to her – and as a toothy vicar whose pious exterior made for a sharp contrast with his visits to “naughty” strip clubs. (Davies, I notice, has a picture of this vicar on his Twitter account.) There were the two Ronnies, Barker and Corbett, whose show included peculiar serials such as “The Worm That Turned”, a dystopian fiction starring Diana Dors, in which women ruled the world (mostly in hot pants and jackboots) and men wore women’s clothes and kept house, and “Band of Slaves”, in which an all-girl orchestra was sold into slavery. Rod Hull and his puppet Emu performed a tango of aggression so convincing, you couldn’t help but rub your upper arms as you watched, imagining the bruises on those of their victims. Benny Hill was forbidden in our house – he was on ITV – but I knew the shtick. He chased girls. Round and round and round. (Hill, incidentally, made a shrine of his dead mother’s clothes, just as Savile did with those of his beloved “Duchess”.) Somehow, Ben Elton’s con­troversial attack on Hill – the comedian’s routine, he suggested, incited rape and other acts of violence against women – doesn’t seem quite so over-the-top now as when he made it in 1987.

Where were all the women stars? Do you need to ask? This was the era of Lena Zava­roni and Bonnie Langford, of little girls who were expected to act like women but who looked very much like . . . little girls. The two met at the Italia Conti stage school in London, and both were winners of the talent show Opportunity Knocks; Zavaroni suffered from anorexia. A certain coquettishness was the order of the day for them, just as it was for the rest of us.

I remember this nascent flirtation very well: the ordeal of being made to kiss particular adults; of performing for the coins they’d press into your hand; of accepting compliments for one’s nine-year-old physique (“Your eyes get bigger and bluer every day,” a man used to say to me, somewhat intensely, in the days when I still wore knee-high white socks). But the grown-ups thought this was fine. Mothers encouraged it, if anything. How lovely to have a pretty, accommodating daughter. Before paedophilia – a word that, as Davies reminds us, was hardly used in the Seventies – it was faceless strangers you had to fear, men in long coats who offered you sweets, not your father’s associates (or famous DJs, should you be lucky enough to meet one).

Lechery was a running gag. When a man who was married to a friend of my mother tried it on with me when I was 17, she didn’t give him a piece of her mind; we laughed about it together, with her doing comedy “jazz hands” and chasing me round the kitchen. “Slimy” was a word we used a lot. It meant: touchy-feely, dubious, avoid. The only trouble was that it sometimes felt as though slimy men comprised the lion’s share of the male population. They were on the telly, and they were round the corner. They were part of the deal, if you wanted to be an adult.

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So, it wasn’t through the prism of the present that I read Davies’s book, but through that of the past. My own past. Perhaps this is why I seem to have been a touch less surprised by the substance of it than some of the big male beasts who reviewed it for the newspapers – though I wouldn’t for a minute want to suggest that In Plain Sight doesn’t make for sickening reading. It is truly foul, and therein lies its power.

Davies, who doggedly interviewed Savile several times and over a period of years, has done an exemplary job. His great achievement is to have wrested the story from the impossible-to-fathom numbers of news reports (thus far Savile is known to have committed 214 criminal offences in 50 years; there are 31 allegations of rape, half of them against minors). He does this by two means. First of all, in more than 500 pages, he gives only one full account of an assault by Savile: in a chapter entitled “Your Porter Hurt Me”, the brutal yet matter-of-fact rape in 1977 of a 12-year-old girl in a television room at Stoke Mandeville Hospital. This decision leaves no danger at all the reader will grow desensitised. The particular stands for what was, in Savile’s life, the general, to deeply upsetting effect.

Second, there is the way Davies deploys detail, layer upon layer of it, the better to show his subject’s character. Savile was unknowable: ratty, obfuscatory, self-mythologising, a liar even when no untruths needed to be told (for instance, he wildly exaggerated the number of years he spent down the mines as a Bevin Boy). Yet Davies makes him vivid, his nastiness laid out like guts on a slab. He once owned a flat whose every wall was painted black. After sex, of whatever kind, he would clean himself with TCP. His genitals stank, something his victims remember. He wore tracksuits with elasticated waistbands and no underwear for a reason. As the manager of the Mecca-owned Plaza dance hall in Manchester, he employed as his henchmen Hungarian “lads” who had worked in German concentration camps. Even after he became a millionaire, he would sit in darkness.

Arriving in any new place, Savile’s first move was to ask where the hospital was. Once on the wards – he worked as a volunteer porter – his favourite time was three o’clock in the morning, the hour when often someone died. At the age of 75, and still sexually active, he continued to refer to women as “it”. Combine this with the period trimmings – the awful clothes, the flat in Scarborough, the caravans, the nightclubs, the pirate radio stations, the tired old entertainers whose names are now almost forgotten – and what you have is, as Davies succinctly puts it, “a Chapman brothers re-imagining of a postcard caricature from the golden days of the British seaside”.

Davies runs his life of Savile from Leeds childhood (the son of a spivvy bookmaker’s clerk, he was the youngest of seven) to pillar of the establishment (adored by Margaret Thatcher and the Prince of Wales alike, he was knighted in 1990 at the former’s behest) alongside a pretty definitive account of the BBC’s decision in 2011 to pull a Newsnight investigation into the allegations against the recently deceased star. It’s easy to get bogged down in the detail of this – who said what, when and why – but it also affords the reader a strong and terrifying sense that we might never have discovered the truth about Savile. If it wasn’t for the fact that Meirion Jones, a Newsnight producer, had an aunt who was once headmistress of the Duncroft Approved School for Girls in Surrey, to which Savile was a frequent visitor – he expected the students to give him oral sex in return for various “treats” – Savile’s pulverised headstone might still be standing in a Scarborough cemetery. (Jones remembered certain things about the school, things that made him believe the allegations by former pupils when he first came across them.)

In the days after I finished the book, it was this – what you might call the precariousness of the trail – that haunted me, even more than Savile’s cruelty to and disgust for other human beings. Because the only thing worse than knowing what he did would be not to know. In my mind’s eye, I kept seeing that vast piece of granite, inscribed with those mocking words, “It was good while it lasted,” shiny and whole again. I wonder whether the man responsible both for this stone’s creation in 2011 and for its destruction less than a year later is haunted by it, too. According to Davies, Robert Morphet, now of Joseph A Hey & Son of Bradford, also wrote to Jim’ll Fix It as a boy. He wanted to be a funeral director for a day. His letter, though, was never answered, and he met Savile only when the Yorkshire disc jockey’s body was cold and the smile had been wiped forever from his face. 

Rachel Cooke trained as a reporter on The Sunday Times. She is now a writer at The Observer. In the 2006 British Press Awards, she was named Interviewer of the Year.

This article first appeared in the 03 September 2014 issue of the New Statesman, The summer of blood

Photo: Getty
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Celebrate Labour's electoral success – but don't forget the working class

The shutting down of genuine, constructive debate on the left is the great danger we face. 

In the moment when the exit poll was released on 8 June, after seven weeks of slogging up and down the streets of Britain, dealing with scepticism, doubt and sometimes downright hostility, we felt a combination of relief, optimism, even euphoria.
 
This election broke wide open some assumptions that have constrained us on the left for too long; that the young won’t vote, that any one individual or political party is “unelectable”, that perceptions of both individuals, parties and even policies cannot change suddenly and dramatically. It reminded us that courage, ambition and hope are what’s needed and what have been missing from our politics, too often, for too long.
 
We have learnt to tread carefully and wear our values lightly. But in recent weeks we have remembered that our convictions can, as Jonathan Freedland once wrote, “bring hope flickering back to life” and meet the growing appetite for a politics that doesn’t simply rail against what is but aspires to build a world that is better.
 
In this election at least, it seems the final, anticipated fracture of Labour from its working-class base after Brexit did not materialise. Shortly before the snap election was called I wrote that while Brexit appeared to be Labour’s greatest weakness, it could just be our biggest strength, because: “consider what remain voting Tottenham and leave voting Wigan have in common: Labour… We will succeed if we seek the common ground shared by the decent, sensible majority, and more importantly, so will Britain.”
 
But consider this too. The Tories ran a terrible campaign. It was, without any doubt,the most inept, counter-productive campaign I’ve ever seen in British politics. The day their manifesto hit the headlines, even in our toughest neighbourhoods, we could feel change in the air. Arrogance is never rewarded by the British people and Theresa May has paid a price for it. Yet, despite a Tory manifesto that was a full, square attack on older people, the majority of over 65s still came out for the Tories.
 
And despite the growing relevance of freedom, internationalism and tolerance in an era characterised by Donald Trump and Vladimir Putin, the Liberal Democrats managed to become bystanders in the political debate. They stood on a platform that aimed to capture the support of those remain voters for whom Brexit is the major question, but neglected the rest. And they quite spectacularly failed to foresee that those who were intensely angered by May’s conversion to a little England, hard Brexit stance would vote tactically against the Tories. Over those seven weeks, they all but disappeared as a political force.
 
As Bob Dylan once said, "the times, they are a-changin" – and they will change again. The recent past has moved at extraordinary speed. The Brexit Referendum, the rise and retreat of nationalism, the election of Trump and his crushing unpopularity just a few months later, the reversal in fortunes for May and Jeremy Corbyn, the astonishing phenomenon of Emmanuel Macron and pro-European centrism, and the dramatic rise and sudden collapse of Ukip. Politics, as John Harris wrote last week, is now more fluid than ever. So now is the time, for hope yes, and for conviction too, but not for jubilation. We need some serious thinking. 
 
We should be cautious to rush to judgment. It is only two weeks since the exit poll sent shockwaves across the country. There is no comprehensive explanation for the multitude of motivations that delivered this election result and will not be for some time. But there are some early indictors that must make us think. 
 
After seven years of austerity, as John Curtice observes, the Tories made some of their biggest gains in some of the poorest areas of Britain. It is something I felt in all of the eight constituencies I campaigned in during the election. While the Labour vote rose significantly in towns like Wigan, so too did the Tory vote, despite little or no campaigning activity on the ground. As Rob Ford puts it, “Labour, founded as the party of the working class, and focused on redistributing resources from the rich to the poor, gained the most ground in 2017 in seats with the largest concentrations of middle-class professionals and the rich. The Conservatives, long the party of capital and the middle class, made their largest gains in the poorest seats of England and Wales… Britain’s class politics has been turned completely upside down in 2017”.
 
To acknowledge the growing, longstanding scepticism of many working-class men, and women, towards Labour in towns across England is not to take away from the hard work and drive of the activists, advisers and politicians that helped to fuel such a dramatic turnaround for Labour during the short campaign. To have won considerable gains in wealthier suburbs is no small achievement. 
 
But if the future of Labour lies in a coalition between middle-class young professionals and the working class, what is the glue that binds? While there is shared agreement about investment in public services, how are those interests to be squared on areas like national security and immigration? I believe it can and must be done, but – as I said to conference when I was first elected seven years ago - it will demand that we begin with the difficult questions, not the easy ones.  
 
Just a few days before the election, statistics were released that pointed to a collapse in trade union membership. What does the decline of an organised Labour movement mean for who we are and what we can achieve? These are not new questions. They were posed by Eric Hobsbawm in his brilliant lecture, "The Forward March of Labour Halted" in 1979 - a challenge laid down in the year I was born. Now, 37 years on, we are no further down the road to answering it. 
 
The most dramatic finding from this election was the support Corbyn’s Labour party appears to have won from middle-class, young professionals. They said he couldn’t do it and quite stunningly it seems they were wrong. But a ComRes poll last week caught my eye – by a large margin those 30-44 year olds would favour a new centre-ground political party over the current political settlement. In an election where we returned strongly to two-party politics, it appears they moved to us. But what would a dynamic and renewed Liberal Democrat Party, or a British En Marche do to our support base?
 
After a hellish two years we have learnt in Labour, I hope, that unity matters. The public and private anger directed towards each other, whether the Labour leadership, the parliamentary Labour party or elected councillors, is desperately damaging and its (relative) absence in the campaign was important.
 
But unity is not the same as uniformity, and while two weeks ago I felt there was a real danger of historic fracture, now I believe the shutting down of genuine, constructive debate on the left is the great danger we face, and must avoid. No one person, faction or party has ever had the monopoly on wisdom. The breadth of the Labour movement was and remains our greatest strength. 
 
Consider the Labour manifesto, which drew on every tradition across our movement and demanded that every part of the party had to compromise. Those broad traditions still matter and are still relevant because they hear and are attuned to different parts of Britain. Our country is changing and politics must catch up. The future will be negotiated, not imposed.
 
As we witness the age of "strong man" politics across the world, here in Britain our political culture has become angrier and more illiberal than at any time I can remember. The Brexit debate was characterised by rage, misinformation and a macho political culture that demanded that we abandon nuance and complexity, an understanding of one another and tolerance of different points of view.
 
But this is not where the future of Britain lies: it lies in pluralism. It lies in a politics that is nimbler, more fleet of foot, less constrained; a return to the great tradition of debate, evidence, experience and argument as a way to build broad coalitions and convince people; not shouting one another down, nor believing any of us are always right; an arena in which we listen as much as we speak; a political culture in which we are capable of forming alliances within and across party lines to achieve real, lasting change.
 
And ultimately that’s the prize: not just seek power but, to paraphrase a philosopher whose work inspired millions, in the end “the point is to change it”. We could sit tight in Labour and hope to see the current government fall apart. We might even inherit power, we could temporarily reverse some of the worst of the last seven years, but what then? If we have learnt anything from 13 years of Labour government it should be this: that to build lasting change is the hardest political task of all, and it requires now that we do not turn to the political culture, the tools or even the ideas of the past, but that we think hard about where the future of our movement and our country really lies. Now is not the time to sit back and celebrate. Now is the time to think.

Lisa Nandy is the MP for Wigan. She was formerly Shadow Secretary of State for Energy and Climate Change.

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