Jonathan Swift said that the sure sign of a true genius was that the dunces would be ranged in confederacy against him. And the reverse is a reliable rule of thumb, too. Without naming any politicians, pop stars or sportsmen in particular, uncommon popular acclaim is almost always the hallmark of a self-promoting fraud.
Which is why the chorus of celebrities and media commentators who came out in loud support of Louis Walsh when those false assault allegations first surfaced couldn’t but inspire suspicion. Generally speaking, the more authoritatively the popular press assures you of the impossibility of a particular proposition, the more confidently you can hang your hat on it.
Right from the outset, though, Walsh appeared the exception to this maxim. Knowing him vaguely, I found the idea of the pop impresario overpowering a young man in the gents in a nightclub almost comically improbable. It was like trying to picture Frank Spencer masterminding the Italian Job. And yet it gained traction immediately after it appeared in The Sun 10 days ago, and the story raged across the media for almost a full week until the gardai announced that the “victim” was to be charged with making a false report.
Walsh says that he intends to sue the paper for publishing the false allegations. However, the issue of whether the story constitutes a libel exposes a loophole in the protections offered to people who are accused, sometimes falsely, of the most repugnant acts.
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Defamation is the publication of an untrue statement which has the effect of lowering the subject in the eyes of right-thinking people. Undeniably, the allegation that he was guilty of a sexual assault was unfounded, and threatened grave damage to Walsh’s reputation until it was unconditionally refuted. However, the newspaper didn’t say that he was guilty of a sexual assault. Instead, it published the true statement that gardai were investigating an accusation of a sexual nature against Walsh. He was subsequently questioned under caution.
Just how much of a shield this distinction may prove against a libel award remains to be seen. Almost every newspaper that subsequently published the story kept their fingers crossed that they were protected by the truth of the central fact: that Walsh was indeed the subject of an official complaint over an alleged incident in a night club. The collateral implications — that there was no smoke without fire — were fortuitous manna from the god of celebrity gossip.
From this case we may learn something about relying on legality over morality, however safe the ground may appear. It is illegal to name a person who has been charged with a sexual offence. However, because that protection does not extend to persons who have merely been the subject of a complaint, there’s nothing to stop the media naming someone in Walsh’s position, who has been falsely accused.
This liberty was employed earlier this year to identify a journalist who has yet to be questioned by gardai over allegations of sexual misconduct with underage girls. Yet it is patently unjust, and in flagrant contravention of the spirit of the protection of anonymity in such cases, to name such people. Just because it is legal doesn’t make it right, and Walsh has the resources to hammer that message home.
Regardless of the fact that the allegations against him were false, he has been damaged by this incident. Every newspaper profile of him will in future include the fact that he was the subject of an allegation of a sexual assault in a Dublin nightclub in 2011, which led to a police investigation that exonerated him. It is difficult to see what could rectify this injustice if an official declaration of his innocence, and the prosecution of his accuser, hasn’t been sufficient already.
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The most effective acknowledgement of the injustice done to Walsh would be an amendment to current legislation. It is clearly necessary to extend the protection of anonymity to persons who are the subject of a complaint of sexual assault. Not only would this ensure that famous people are not blackmail targets, it would also offer the media some certainty in the matter of reporting such allegations. The Walsh story gained momentum by appearing in the most responsible publications once it became too ubiquitous to ignore.
The complaint stage is the flimsiest element of a prosecution. The protection of anonymity doesn’t kick in until a charge has been brought, by which stage a garda investigation has been completed and the DPP is satisfied there’s sufficient evidence to ground a criminal trial. A complaint, though, is simply one person’s untested word against another, and yet is fair game for publication. Surely it should be more reprehensible, not less, to name somebody in connection with a sexual assault where you’ve good reason to believe the accusation is rubbish? If anything, this provision encourages unscrupulous publications to run with outlandish allegations that are deemed so far-fetched they will never result in a prosecution.
An accusation of sexual misconduct is probably the most difficult to shake off. That’s the reason why a unique anonymity is offered to accused persons. No other category of crime attracts this safeguard, because none other is quite as socially repulsive as rape or sexual assault.
The argument against extending anonymity to the complaint stage of a prosecution is that there are already sufficient disincentives to making a false claim. If garda time is wasted, and an innocent person unfairly troubled by a vexatious allegation, the punishment can be a fine or up to 12 months in prison. That’s still lenient, however, considering the devastating impact such an accusation could have on the individual’s career or reputation.
These penalties are certainly light enough to make it worthwhile for a blackmailer to threaten a prominent businessperson, say, with a garda complaint. The old “Let’s hear the bastard deny it” motivation is as potent as ever. And, as the Walsh case proves, by the time the truth has been established, a lot of harm has already been done.
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Caroline Bourne, the British woman who emailed her son’s fiancée to point out some home truths, has been branded a “monster-in-law” for her chilly candour. And yet, reading through the Bourne Ultimatum, as it’s been dubbed, I was hard pressed to decide which of the women I liked least. Mrs Bourne sounds a bit of a battleaxe, for sure, but her advice to the girlfriend, Heidi Withers, will chime with anyone exasperated by modern manners.
She’s right, for example, to point out that it’s rude for a house guest to announce what she will and will not eat, unless she suffers from an allergy. Far too many people believe we are fascinated by their culinary foibles, when they are just plain tedious. If you don’t like the broccoli that comes with a homecooked meal, just leave it on the side of your plate and pretend you’re not hungry. I have a friend who has a pathological fear of peas (a chorus of Give Peas A Chance never loses its appeal) but is far too polite to mention it to strangers. So it is always amusing to serve him peas in company, and watch him trying to corral them with his fork as they run amok on the plate.
Most food issues, though, are attention-seeking devices, indulged by fussy parents in childhood. In fact, most of Withers’ apparent shortcomings should have been ironed out by a firm parental hand long ago. It is unacceptable to complain that your portion is too small, to lash into your plate of food before everyone else has been served, or to demand second helpings before they’ve been offered. If you are staying with a household of early risers, you should know enough to get up before midday. On the plus side, for both women, family get-togethers should be lively affairs in future.