The Sunday Times April 10, 2022 21NEWS REVIEW
Savile says he
won’t answer one
of my questions
unless I get up
and give him a kissSavile kisses Selina Scott on
BBC Breakfast Time in 1984.
She said Prince Charles, below,
was impressed with how Savile
manipulated the tabloidsI
n 1984, when I was presenting the
newly launched BBC Breakfast
Time, Jimmy Savile was my guest
several times on the show’s sofa. He
was invited on to talk about his
charity work, marathon-running
and friendship with Prince Charles
and Margaret Thatcher. He also
clearly saw it as an ideal opportu-
nity to polish his halo and remind
viewers of his candidacy for sainthood.
I came to dread what the corporation
billed in its press releases as a “cosy chat”
between us. To me, there was nothing
cosy about it. Yet I knew my role. In those
days, there was immense pressure on
young women in television to acquiesce
to older men. I therefore felt compelled
to act as though Savile charmed, amused
and, dare I say, titillated me with his con-
stant stream of sexual intent. It is difficult
to comprehend now the salacious nature
of his innuendo in those days, or indeed
that the BBC allowed it.
We have been reminded of Savile’s
abhorrent crimes and behaviour by a
Netflix documentary, Jimmy Savile: A
British Horror Story, released last week to
another torrent of disbelief and criticism
of the media, politicians and royalty. It
reveals once again how the establish-
ment helped this man to mask his paedo-
philia in plain view.
I confess I played my part in this.
Let me give you a flavour of my conver-
sations with Savile on the Breakfast Time
sofa, many of which feature in the Netflix
documentary. I was seated between two
sexual predators: Savile and my co-pre-
senter, Frank Bough, who later lost his
job after being exposed by the News of
the World for taking cocaine in parties
with prostitutes. He died in 2020.
The clips of me and Savile were taken
from several shows. First, I am seen wel-
coming Savile as our guest. He immedi-
ately acts up, affecting the moon-eyed
look of a teenager in love. A conversation
follows about what I will be doing for
Christmas. With a wink, Savile suggests
he should come round to my place for
tea. Already the game has begun. I laugh
and look at the camera and try to deflect
his line by saying how exhausting Christ-
mas is. Savile is undeterred. It is worth
repeating the exchange in full:
Savile: “How could anybody get tired
sitting next to you?”
Me (trying to change the subject): “Any
more plans for the future, Jimmy? Will
you be doing any more fundraising?”
Bough (sensing my embarrassment,
as an aside but audible to everyone):
“Stick with it, girl.”
At this point, Dr Miriam Stoppard, the
programme’s health expert, enters the
conversation: “All this schmooze in the
early morning! I am not used to it.”
The conversation takes a turn to Savile
running marathons at his age. In all inno-
cence, I ask him a question that might
seem as though I am leading him on,
although that certainly wasn’t my inten-
tion: “Yes you are very rubbery. You have
a very sort of limbered-up body. I hear
the women absolutely besiege you at the
end of these marathons, these charity
runs. Is it true?”
Savile: “With cooling drinks.” (Stop-
pard mops Savile’s brow.)
Me: “You see the effect you have on
women!”
Stoppard: “You train with girls?”
Savile: “I’m afraid so, yes. They’re
faster than me, so they run in front of me,
so therefore the pain is intense but the
view is magnificent.” (Bough laughs.)
In another clip, Savile is back on the
sofa, this time in a sleeping bag.
Me: “Why are you hiding beneath this
sleeping bag?”
Savile: “If I might ask you, Selina, if you
could hold that hand with one of your
hands, please.”
Bough: “I will make absolutely certain
he doesn’t step out of line, don’t worry.”
Savile: “I know millions of fellas who
wish they could hold hands with Selina
Scott in their sleeping bags.”reptilian behaviour, but when he asked if
he could leave his motor caravan in the
BBC car park because it allowed him to
rest between shows, the bosses happily
agreed. This gave him a private place to
abuse impressionable teenage girls.
Savile, like me, was brought up in York-
shire. Because I had been exposed from
an early age to the kind of Yorkshireman
Savile was, I felt I had an innate under-
standing of him in a way that the BBC
suits never did. They thought Savile was
typical of men from the north of England
— or, to be more accurate, working-class
men from the north of England who had
succeeded in life. He was their token
northerner with a heart of gold who
could be relied on to be amusing and
deliver ratings success. Such rarities had
to be protected. The BBC is paranoid and
ruthless in protecting its own.
Many who have seen A British Horror
Story have been surprised and disap-NEWS REVIEW
BREAKFAST
WITH SAVILE
TURNED MY
STOMACH
NETFLIXAmong the most shocking scenes in Netflix’s
new documentary about Jimmy Savile is
his harassment, live on the BBC, of the
presenter Selina Scott. Here she writes
of her shame at playing along with his
sick game — but felt she had no choiceImagine (if you can) a
House of Commons peopled
entirely by righteous and
sober figures, honest souls
who were sexually continent
and champed to be first in the
queue to pay their taxes. It
would be a parliament of
prudes and prigs. We tried
that sort of bossy elite with
the Protectorate of the mid-
1600s. Cromwell and his
cronies cancelled Christmas.
There was something freakish
about the Puritans. Flawed
politicians are more normal.
The argument is often made
that parliament must reflect
the country it serves. Should
that not include the sleazebag
community?
Some ask if these Tories
are as sleazy as John Major’s
in the 1990s. No. We are still,
thank goodness, some way off
the hideous misadventure of
Stephen Milligan, found dead
in his London flat wearing
stockings and suspenders
with a bin bag over his head.
The Major era, with Uncle
Johnny himself swinging from
the chandeliers with Edwina
Currie, had a gallivanting
craziness with all those
brown envelopes of cash and
squadrons of randy Tory
gents chasing Lady
Bienvenida Buck. Nor have
we had a repeat of the
political hara-kiri of Jeffrey
Archer and Jonathan Aitken
bringing libel actions when
they knew they were guilty.
Scandal, even unproven, isa boon to opposition parties.
Labour made hay with
Partygate and is now running
hard against Mrs Sunak,
ungallant though it may be to
get at ministers via their
wives. Remember the squeals
of “sexism” when Tories
criticised Sally Bercow for
posing in a bedsheet? Labour
has its own magnificent
record of sleaze. The Blair
years, mottled as an antique
looking glass, gave us Ron
Davies and his “moment of
madness” on Clapham
Common, the Hinduja
brothers, Lakshmi Mittal,
Lord Levy, David Mills and,
the big one, Cherie’s
hairdressing bills. Sir Keir
Starmer is being advised by
Lord Mandelson, who has a
special sailor suit for jaunts
on the Deripaska yacht.
Nor, with Norman Scott
publishing his memoir of the
Thorpe affair, can Liberals
claim to be spotless. Scots
Nats’ party accounts levitate
with the whiff of gorgonzola.
One way or another, most of
them are at it.
Political scandal was and is
and evermore shall be. It
sprouts like knotgrass on
sandy soil. It sells
newspapers, betrays the
shallow chancers who
presume to enter public life
and, most important,
demonstrates the intrinsic
foolishness of politicians
telling the rest of us how to
live our lives.Carrie Johnson’s eco-lobbying
explode like a custard
bombe? Will Grant Schnapps
elope to Tahiti with a trans
Love Island contestant?
The Warburton fiasco is
not without its shadows.
Using political seniority to
make sexual demands, as is
alleged in this case, is creepy.
Law-makers should not be
law-breakers. There is also
the argument that politicians
have a duty to set a good
example. That one never
quite flies for me.Ben Elliot, a Conservative
Party co-chairman, is in the
mire for offering “luxury
lifestyle management
services” to oligarchs. There
are claims about the non-
domicile tax status of Rishi
Sunak’s billionaire-daughter
wife plus financial interests
she had in Putin’s Russia.
The sheer, gothic vulgarity
of it all is eye-boggling. What
next in this catalogue of
excess? Will Rishi’s wife turn
out to have a timeshare
overlooking Red Square? WillA
nother barnacle on the
whale, another entry in
the A to Z of political
scandals. A is for
Archer and B is for
Bernie Ecclestone, V is for
Vaz and now W is for
Warburton. Last week’s
Sunday Times page 1 pin-up
was David Warburton, a
previously obscure
Conservative backbench MP
who was shown posing
alongside lines of white
powder. Andrews liver salts
or something rather more
Colombian?
Warburton, 56, was alsoIs this the
sleaziest
bunch of
Tories yet?
We roll our eyes, but politics would
be deathly without the odd creep
and criminal, says Quentin Lettsaccused of unwanted
advances towards three
younger women. He is said to
have ripped off his clothes
and hopped into the bed of a
colleague who had little
desire to entertain him there.
There are three valid
reactions to this saga. You can
be aghast and ask, “When will
our politicians start acting
their age?!” You can roll your
eyes and sigh, “Some things
never change.” Or you can
confess to a small glow of
pride, not only that the free
press dishes up such
sweetmeats but also that ourpolitical class is so
consistently, farcically fruity.
Sid James and Barbara
Windsor are no longer with
us, but Carry On Westminster
continues its box-office-
busting run. The love god
David Mellor punched above
his weight with Antonia de
Sancha, Alan Clark kept a
coven of lovelies, Steve Norris
more than earned the
nickname “Shagger” and now
we have the hon member for
Somerton, Frome and quite
possibly Bogota.
Political scandals are
disgraceful, inevitable and ...
a bulwark of our democracy.
They ensure we do not take
our political elite too
seriously. How could anyone
view that photograph of a
half-fried Warburton trying to
strike a smouldering pose
and not laugh? Ridicule does
to politicians what salt does
to snails. Mockery is brewer’s
droop to strutting martinets.
If Russians had only scoffed
more at Vladimir Putin —
those Brokeback Mountain
horse-riding shots, that too-
neat combover, the muy
gymnastica mistress — we
might not be where we are
with Ukraine. Everyone
laughed at boozy Boris
Yeltsin, but he was a healthier
political personality than his
“strongman” successor.
Every time another
parliamentarian is caught
with his reputation round his
ankles (these mishaps seldomafflict female MPs), people
are shocked. It’s a triumph of
naive hope over experience.
Conservatives have recently
been entangled in numerous
hoohahs: lockdown parties at
Downing Street, Matt
Hancock snogging an aide,
Owen Paterson’s lobbying
and David Cameron’s links to
Lex Greensill. The
sideburned larrikin Lex wore
desert boots, a chunky
wristwatch and a velvet-
collared covert coat, yet dear
Dave still thought him bonzer.THE 1990S
Clockwise from left, David Warburton, Matt
Hancock with Gina Coladangelo, Rishi
Sunak and his wife Akshata Murty... AND NOW
Clockwise from left, David Mellor and then
wife Judith, John Major and Edwina Currie,
Steve Norris, Neil and Christine HamiltonMe: “Oh no. I knew this was going to
happen.”
Savile: “I know a lot of fellas who wish
Selina Scott would pinch their sleeping
bags from them.”
At this point, our sports correspond-
ent, David Icke, arrives to talk about
squash. I momentarily think I am saved.
By now, Savile is lying flat out on the sofa.
Bough to Savile: “Have you tried
squash?”
Savile: “I have tried squeeze and press
but never squash.”
There is then another cutaway to
Savile saying he won’t answer one of my
questions unless I get up from the sofa
and give him a kiss. Which, tragically,
I felt I had to do.
Throughout all of this flirtatious non-
sense, to my eternal shame, I played the
game. I laughed along, giving the impres-
sion I was amused, touched my earrings
and my hair in what viewers might have
interpreted as a kind of acknowledge-
ment of his grim sexual foreplay.
Remember, these exchanges were all
going out live on BBC1, with no opportu-
nity for cuts or retakes if I thought things
were going too far. The reality of my
emotion was very different from the per-
sona I was presenting on screen. I was at
the time in my early thirties. Savile was
nearing 60. I found him creepy, slippery
and difficult to handle. Every question I
asked, including many not shown in
the Netflix documentary, seemed to be
met with a wink-wink, nudge-nudge
riposte.T
hey say the camera never
lies. That it finds you out.
But it does lie. It lied about
my innermost repulsion
to Savile and it lied to
viewers about the kind of
person Savile really was.
Looking back at these
clips again, after nearly
40 years, is apointed that Savile was able to infiltrate
the royal family so successfully and to
charm Prince Charles into becoming one
of his leading advocates — to the extent
that he suggested Savile advise the Duke
and Duchess of York on how to improve
their public image. Charles was deeply
impressed by how Savile could manipu-
late the newspapers.
Just before the turn of the century, I
spent a week with Charles for an ITV doc-
umentary on the remote Outer Hebrid-
ean island of Berneray. Away from royal
life, he was able to relax and express him-
self more freely. He told me: “I lack a
great deal of confidence, so it is quite a
struggle. I could quite happily decide to
lead a much quieter existence. Selina,
you don’t have your life mapped out for
you as far as you can see for every
minute, for every hour, for every day, for
every year.”
To Charles, a man like Savile, who
could bend the tabloids to his will,
seemed miraculous. Savile’s genius at
raising millions for charity, and changing
some people’s lives for the better, would
have appealed directly to him.
One of the paradoxes of our age is that
a man such as Savile, with no discernible
talent apart from self-promotion — he
didn’t play a musical instrument, he
didn’t act, he left school with no qualifi-
cations, finding work as a miner, a wres-
tler and a dancehall bouncer — could so
bewitch the nation. It was achieved
through the prism of television, with, as I
observed first hand, those who run the
business as willing conspirators.
Savile is a terrible warning that
those at the top in television —
and those of us who watch
and believe it — cannot
ignore.
It would be naïve to
believe the monster
that was Savile could
not in some more
contemporary form
re-emerge in today’s
television.
When Savile was buried in
Scarborough in 2011, he dic-
tated that his headstone would
carry the inscription “It was
good while it lasted” — a
V-sign to us all from the here-
after.reminder of how influential and powerful
television is, and how it can lie.
Although there were rumours about
Savile’s dangerous attraction to children
— of which I knew nothing at the time — it
must be remembered that because
Savile, with his show Jim’ll Fix It, was one
of the biggest stars under contract to the
BBC, I was conscious that it was my job on
behalf of the corporation to big him up.
He knew this, which allowed him to act
out one of his favourite roles, a cheeky,
naughty boy, one of the lads, “Our
Jimmy”.
Whatever was known about Savile
preying on under-age girls while he pre-
sented Top of the Pops, up on the sixth
floor of Television Centre, remained in
the BBC mandarins’ “closed and secret”
file. Savile was constantly being offered
golden contracts by ITV to front its Satur-
day night schedule and the BBC didn’t
want to lose him. It is not known exactly
to what extent it turned a blind eye to his