In the week past, Gordon Brown has been involved in a sad dispute with the Sun about whether that newspaper did or did not have his and his wife’s approval for publishing news of the then prime minister’s baby son Fraser’s cystic fibrosis.
The Sun (in the form of Rebekah Brooks) has claimed the couple consented to publication. The Browns claim they did not but, believing nothing could stop the report, tried to negotiate with the Sun about the manner in which the story came out, in order ‘to minimise the damage’, as Mr Brown put it.
Those two accounts are reconcilable. There is much in life to which we’re obliged to ‘consent’: the word can be used in different ways. But this argument is a mirage. The interesting assertion is the one both sides sidestep: not ‘did the Browns consent?’ but ‘was their consent required?’
The British newspaper industry appears too cowed today to offer, without apology, the right answer: which should be no.
Of course the Browns didn’t want their sad story to be published. At all. Anywhere. In any form. Ever. Who would? But you will not open an edition of any paper in the land — no, not even The Spectator — without encountering reports, comments and opinions that at least some of those involved will not fervently wish had not been published. No author wants to see his book trashed. No prisoner wants any report of his conviction to appear, and nor does his mother. Those close to the victims of accidents may heartily wish that their loved ones’ names and perhaps photographs had not appeared. A large part of the news we read hurts, embarrasses or shames someone who would have suppressed publication if he could; or reopens a wound someone would have preferred left to heal in darkness.
Comments
Join the debate for just £1 a month
Be part of the conversation with other Spectator readers by getting your first three months for £3.
UNLOCK ACCESS Just £1 a monthAlready a subscriber? Log in