Thoughts from Jill Saward's funeral- yesterday

Parasites. Scavengers.

It's probably unfair to use those words to describe some press photographers. Mosquitoes, vampire bats, vultures, jackals and hyenas all play a necessary part in the world's eco-systems, and they don't get to choose what they do. David Attenborough is quite taken with some of them. But unlike human beings, these simpler creatures lack the capacity for moral choices. They don't know the difference between Right and Wrong, or try to puzzle out the grey areas in-between.

But when a crowd of mourners emerges from Lichfield Cathedral to face the multiple whirring of clicking cameras, you can wonder where some press photographers might have buried their consciences, to be able do this kind of thing for a living. The congregation were here at the funeral to say goodbye to a valued friend, a relative, a sister, an aunt, a resolute campaigner against sexual violence- so why were the press taking close-up pictures of individual with zoom lenses? By all means, it made sense to take pictures of the coffin, the undertakers, and the hearse driving away. But why intrude on personal tears and deep distress?

The photographers' answers would probably be- 'Because we can. Because images like these are interesting for our viewers and readers around the world- and of course, because we're only doing our job.' People like this might even witter on about 'the public's right to know', but I'm not sure why this mythical public needed to see the individual grief of family and friends. During the 2011 Levenson enquiry into press freedom, the reporter Paul McMullan memorably said,

“Privacy is the space bad people need to do bad things in. Privacy is for paedos; fundamentally nobody else needs it.” (Huffington Post, 30/11/11)

Was he being cynical, arrogant- or just desperately sad, without realising it? Privacy is the space we each make our own. Intruding on a person's private grief and recording it for a profit, is a theft of personal space.

Some interviews and pictures regarding Jill Saward's funeral had been prearranged and agreed with those leading the service. That's fair enough- Jill had a public persona, she made an obvious difference to many peoples' lives, so her funeral was obviously of national significance. Some of those leading the service gave their permission to be interviewed, and so the reporters asked the questions, recorded the words and took the pictures. But before the service, I saw this person walking around, taking photos of chairs.

What was he up to? Afterwards, I realised he was recording the names of family members who had been given reserved seats at the front, because the press wanted to know the names of as many people as possible who were significant to the story. Get the names, make it personal, then get the pictures... That's how it works.

Now, to be fair to them for a moment- the press reports we saw after the funeral yesterday were a lot more factually accurate, than those printed after the Ealing Vicarage attack in 1986 (which Jill referred to, as the 'second violation'). Perhaps that's because fact-checking is much easier these days, when records can be instantly accessed, updated and shared online. (In 1986, vast files of clippings were maintained by newspaper offices. Keeping them up-to-date was a tedious, thankless task, and judging from the number of times they repeated the same inaccuracies despite requests for corrections, it was often done badly.) Also, there's now a lot more information readily available online, if the press want to start nosing around social media.

But yesterday, a large number of close-ups were posted online immediately after the service. At one point, I saw a scrum of photographers huddled together, trying to identify an image they'd taken of someone talking with Jill's husband. Who was she? Curious, I wandered over... and the reporters instantly turned and tried to interview me. 'No thanks', I replied. 'We had enough of that 30 years ago.' Thankfully, I didn't say more.

But that's how these people work (and they are mostly men, by the way.) Get the story, put it together and send it off, then you've done your job making money out of other peoples' lives. Our story and Jill Saward's story, were just one more job to get covered and dispatched, before moving on to the next gig. In a bizarre way, we suddenly knew what it must feel like to be a member of the British Royal Family every day.

So since they didn't ask our permission to take these kinds of photos, I thought I'd give you a photo of the press. I'm sure it's what they would have wanted. After all, they were obviously having a great day out.

Thoughts from Ealing Vicarage, 30 years later (About what to do when you’re at the centre of a media firestorm)

It was March 1986, I was in my first teaching job in Birmingham, when something changed the way I read newspapers, listened to the radio, or watched TV. That ‘something’ was the ‘Ealing Vicarage Rape’, the ‘Ealing Vicarage Attack’, or the ‘Terror at the Vicarage’ story, depending on how it was reported.

Roots- a story that isn't about what you think it is...

‘Mister Thomas, there’s someone in the chapel!’

Reverend Edward Thomas looked up from his sermon notes, and smiled.

‘There often is, Molly. That’s why we leave the doors unlocked. We want people to come in.’

She was a befuddled mix of irritation and alarm. ‘I know that, Reverend, but this one’s a bit odd. A large black car pulled up, and then this man just got out, and stepped straight into the chapel. I’ve never seen him before in my life. And he’s wearing such strange clothes!’

2017- a brief look back at a puzzling year

What a difference a year makes! As we approached 2017 just 12 months ago, many of us were sick and tired of the way 2016 had gone. So many celebrity deaths, so much disturbance, rack and ruin, all dominating news networks around the globe! Could 2017 be even worse? Quite frankly, we were all getting a bit nervous.

But what actually happened next is still rather puzzling. Let's go through the events of 2017 as they happened, month by month....

Don’t-Listen-To-That, Listen-To-This! (A Christmas Humbug Hit-list)

When the Titanic sank in 1912, it carried a substantial library, passengers for the use of.

Now let’s just suppose… What if the shelves of that library were stocked with the only copies in existence, of any book or publication in the world? What poetry, novels, songs, music and other what-have-you would you like to be sunk forever in that library? Which excrescences of art do you wish were most definitely not still with us IN ANY FORM, but were instead, justifiably rotting at the bottom of the Atlantic?

As it’s the festive season, allow me to nominate a few Yuletide offerings that really, really, need to go into that timewarp of non-existence- and some replacements....

Fancy using an alternative Christmas Carol?

Our local community had a 'Living Nativity' event yesterday. Loads of people turned up to witness the Christmas story acted out on the streets, accompanied by the singing of carols- and we all ended up back in the church centre to share mince pies, mulled wine, and generally admire the way the donkeys behaved. Yes, we had real donkeys from a local donkey sanctuary. The local children were pretty good, too.

https://www.facebook.com/morpethnewstv/

The Dead Weight (Twisted Bible Stories)

Good grief, the man was heavy. Jude shifted the pole onto his other shoulder, but it didn't help. Ezra was a dead weight, and he was going to be heavy even if you split the load amongst four men carrying him on a stretcher. The stony road was digging into the soles of Jude's feet, and he wished he'd brought thicker sandals. How long had they been carrying him? Jude's shoulders ached with the load, and the others weren't finding it any easier. Why hadn't somebody brought a cart - or a donkey, or anything useful? Jude knew why - because Ezra hadn't bought them for the building company.

He glanced back at Ezra, his stupid old head bobbing up and down with the movements of the stretcher. They were carrying him head first, the miserable old whatsit, so he could see where he'd been, but not where he'd be going (That way, he couldn't try telling them where to go). Ezra was a useless works manager. Just because he'd been longest working with the family firm, the bosses had made him manager of the whole house building project. Him! Jude couldn't believe it. Everyone knew Ezra was a thief except the bosses, who'd been fooled well and proper.