Sun and moon
THE PRESS BILL GRUNDY
You don't have to know the language, the old song said. But it helps all the same, was the implication. Which is why 1 wish I had the Latin, because then I could have thought up some wise words about guarding the guardians. Quis custodies, it might have started, I suppose, but I don't know how it would go on.
I am driven to this sombre exposure of self-insufficiency by something in the Sun, and, as far as I could see, only in the Sun, last Saturday. It was on the front page and it was headed, —Blood, not paint" apology by Scotland Yard to youth.' I can think of snappier titles, but it doesn't matter because the story underneath it was strong enough to stand it.
You will remember the details. On 27 Octo- ber Britain was balanced on the brink, the papers told us. Bloody revolution was nigh, they warned. Some of them even believed it them- selves, to the extent of sandbagging their doorways and windows. I don't know if their staffs wore tin helmets as they typed, but I wouldn't be surprised.
And then, oh frabjous day, calloo, callay, they chortled in their joy, it all turned out well. The great demo was a splendidly British, in- credibly peaceful affair. And, so the papers told us, it was largely due to our policemen who, it seems, are wonderful after all. In some odd, and as yet unexplained way, this became a kind of tribute to us; our policemen are wonderful, the papers seemed to suggest, because we are wonderful.
Our national pride was boosted even more by a picture of an apparently bleeding demon- strator being led out of Grosvenor Square by two policemen. The picture was reassuringly explained away by a Press Association caption which made it clear that it was paint, not blood, which was disfiguring the fellow's features. He had poured it over himself, we were to understand, in an attempt to provoke people and stir things up a bit, the bounder.
Scotland Yard confirmed the inquiries various papers made, which was why it appeared in our papers on the morning of 28 October, with the result that many a British citizen suffocated over breakfast that day, choked with pride in our police and anger at those damned agitators.
Unfortunately, they died in vain. Because the very next day the young man in question turned up at the offices of the Sun, and said, 'Look, mates, it was blood not paint.' To prove it, he not only told them what had hap- pened and where he had gone for treatment, but also showed them the wound from which the blood, not paint, had flowed.
The Sun was disturbed, for it, too, like most other papers, had printed the picture and the story in all good faith. So they checked the details. The story stood up. The Sun then checked with Scotland Yard. The press bureau of the Yard quickly brought them to a grinding halt. Silly boys, it laughed, it was paint, not blood. The Sun, however, having seen the scar, was not inclined to jest at the wound. It pursued its inquiries in private and in print. All along the line it received nothing but rebuffs. Paint it was, and paint it is, and evermore shall be so. The Sun was not put off and went its patient way.
Patience is a virtue, we are told, and virtue, as we know, goes often unrewarded. In this instance it didn't. For two weeks ago the young man in question, Mr Eric Carpenter, rang the Sun to say that he' had received a letter of apology from Scotland Yard. The press bureau at the Yard appeared not to know of this interesting fact and showed every sign of disbelieving it. Finally it cooperated with the inevitable, with the result that, last Saturday, the Sun was able to say that 'an official inquiry . . . set up by the Metropolitan Police Commissioner, Sir John Waldron, following the publication of inquiries by the Sun' had estab- lished the truth of Mr Carpenter's story.
There are one or two points about this little tale that are worth making, it seems to me. First, the press bureau of Scotland Yard some- times behaves as if it were the public relations bureau of the Yard, on which occasions it is -merely selling something. Buyers should there- fore beware. The second thing is that it took the Sun just twenty-four hours to satisfy itself of the truth of Mr Carpenter's story, and the press bureau two and a half months to admit that an injustice had been done. Thirdly, it seems likely that without the persistence of the Sun, this particular injustice would never have been corrected, so bully for the Sun. And the final thing is that those papers which spent so much time telling us last October just how wonderful our policemen are might have spent just a little time-last week admitting that perhaps not all of them come up to that high standard on every occasion. For who guards the guardians? The press. And if it slackens its vigilance, things can go very wrong. The Sun therefore deserves a pat on the back for its persistence, for it was not just defend- ing Mr Carpenter. It was defending us all.
I am sure that you were thrilled by The Times supplement 'The Colour of Space,' a four-page pull-out on Monday, which proved• that the moon is made of green cheese after all. The fact that only three of the pictures showed us the colour of space, and that most of the pull-out- was in black and white, will only slightly have diminished your admiration for the magnificent enterprise of The Times in scooping everybody to give us these pictures —'the first to appear in a national newspaper.' But can your admiration survive the knowledge that The Times itself was scooped four full days earlier by the South East London Mercury, which showed its readers the colour of space on Thursday 2 January? That's the way, lads. Keep the big boys on their toes.
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