Many years ago, when Terry Keane was fashion editor of the now defunct Sunday Press, a baffling misprint appeared on the newspaper’s television pages. The previews featured an item about a forthcoming BBC comedy series, The Mistress. It should have been accompanied by a small picture of Felicity Kendal, the actress in the title role. But for some mysterious reason, there was a mix-up.
Instead of Kendal, the picture on the TV page was the one of Keane that illustrated her column. It was slapped on top of a caption that declared, in big, bold letters: The Mistress. The fashion editor did not seem to view this as an inconsequential error. She was extremely annoyed. Explanations were sought, lawyers consulted and an apology was printed.
The readers of the Sunday Press were subsequently assured that any suggestion Mrs Keane was a mistress was a monumental injustice. Any embarrassment caused to her or her family by the groundless implication was deeply and humbly regretted. What made this episode so bizarre is that many people were aware that Terry Keane was indeed a mistress. Specifically, she was having an affair with Charles Haughey, the then taoiseach.
Within a year or so of this episode, Keane moved to the Sunday Independent, where she wrote teasingly transparent accounts of her exploits with Sweetie, her rather improbable nickname for Haughey. But until she outed herself publicly on these pages seven years ago, by admitting to her long-standing adulterous relationship with Haughey, nobody dared decode those references in cold print.
As the Sunday Press skirmish confirmed, even an accidental suggestion of impropriety would have brought a libel writ before the ink was dry. Then, as now, the odds would be stacked in favour of the plaintiff, especially a posh, respectable married woman, sobbing for her blighted reputation, and with an equally married taoiseach as lead witness.
For many years we lived under a regime of self-imposed censorship, in which journalists and editors knew all too well the might and the wrath of the crooked and the powerful. The mere flex of their muscles could cost an editor his job or a reporter her reputation, but mostly the elite didn’t have to flex them at all. Cringing under Pavlovian anticipation of trouble if cages were rattled, editors steered clear.
In 1983 the Evening Press reported that Haughey was in debt to a bank. The story was retracted and apologies issued, after the bank angrily denied everything. Years later, when it emerged that the story was true, the bank’s defence for its dissembling was that the sum mentioned in the article was incorrect by a couple of hundred thousand pounds.
Now Michael McDowell, the justice minister, is ready to bring plans for a new privacy law to the cabinet. In theory, this legislation has been necessitated by a European Court of Human Rights ruling that found Princess Caroline of Monaco had her privacy infringed when she was photographed with a male companion in a French cafe.
Many commentators suspect this justification is fortuitous and that the real enthusiasm for the measure comes from some ministers’ annoyance at “unacceptable media intrusion” into their private lives. One privacy proponent is believed to be Martin Cullen, the transport minister, who found himself at the receiving end of some hard-hitting reportage when it emerged that Monica Leech, his political associate, had been awarded about €300,000 in consultancy contracts by government departments.
McDowell was incensed some years back when a tabloid newspaper reported that his son had been mugged. He would deny any link, but there’s a credible suggestion that a certain amount of political self-interest underlies the privacy measure. It does indicate that this lot expect to be in power for some time and want a more comfortable ride next term.
Advocates of the privacy law are likely to argue that it is long overdue. They cite the “race to the bottom” in the newspaper market, in particular the reporting of Liam Lawlor’s fatal accident last year. But it’s hard to see how any privacy law could have prevented the Sunday Independent and Sunday Tribune from making their erroneous claims.
Like so many others, Lawlor benefited for years from the protection of a defamation structure that favoured the rich and the well-connected — the ones who could hire the best counsel and summon the most impressive witnesses. Once Lawlor became fair game, it was predictable that elements of the media would go for the jugular.
The current coverage of Haughey’s health could also be regarded as distasteful. But again, he made a career from concealing avarice and immorality behind a legally fortified veneer of dignity. There’s a lot of lost time to be made up.
There is little public sympathy either for the bleatings of celebrities who find they cannot actually control all their media coverage. The smart ones realise that and either accommodate or anticipate it.
The precedent set by Princess Caroline’s peevish case is an ominous one — she was in a public place when those pictures were taken. An invasion of privacy should only arise when a celebrity is outside the public gaze. Even that presumption should be set aside when a clear public interest is established.
Diana, Princess of Wales was properly compensated when a hidden Daily Mirror camera snapped her sweating in a gym — deception was required to get the photos. But when she was pictured in the same gym gear on a public street, there was no issue.
Recently, the actress and heiress Victoria Smurfit was pictured in a park with her child. She was chatting on her phone, probably unaware she was being papped. It’s hard to see how she might claim her privacy was cruelly invaded, though. I suspect the Smurfit family own a garden or two where she could have taken her child if she was concerned about being seen.
A few years ago, another tabloid featured a rather mean shot of Bono changing into his swimsuit on an Italian beach. It wasn’t his best photocall, but it was a public place and he could have kept a better grip on his towel.
The publication in a Sunday tabloid of details of another U2 member’s family illness, though, was a definite breach of privacy, for which there are already remedies. The constitution pledges to vindicate the personal, unenumerated rights of every citizen. Privacy in such circumstances is among them.
So we already have a legal mechanism to protect each citizen’s privacy, which takes account of the principles claimed to have been breached in Princess Caroline’s case. A new measure will simply graft on an additional protection to comfort the well connected. In other words, in the time-honoured tradition, it’s one law for the rich ...
