Authors: Lynn Barber
So why does he give interviews, if he finds them so bruising? ‘Publicity,’ he says flatly. ‘You have to do it for the DVD [series five of
Doc Martin
], it’s in your contract.’ Would he prefer not to be mentioned in the press at all? ‘No I have to be, for what I do. They’re complementary industries, aren’t they, entertainment and journalism?’ Really? How so? ‘We go on telly and then you can write about us. And then we’re accused of having courted the press.’ Right. This is what one might call the Hugh Grant, as opposed to the Marie Colvin, view of journalists – that they exist to serve as minor vassals of the entertainment industry. Unfortunately this belief seems to have become more widespread post-Leveson.
‘Well, I’m sorry you’ve had such a bad time from the press,’ I tell him stiffly, gathering up my things to leave. ‘It doesn’t take up any time in my day,’ he assures me. We go into the kitchen while he calls me a taxi, but Philippa appears almost immediately and offers to give me a lift to the station. ‘Yes please!’ I say eagerly, but he says, ‘No, no, the taxi’s on its way.’ So there is an awkward fifteen minutes when I am stuck in the kitchen with him, longing for my taxi, when he suddenly turns all chummy again, sunshine after rain, and starts raving about
Doc Martin
. ‘Eileen is such a hoot,’ he says. ‘She’s absolutely brilliant. And – it sounds a silly thing to say – but so grown-up. Sometimes you wonder what world actors live in, but she mucked in with all the cast and the crew in Port Isaac. All you want is enthusiasm,’ he beams. Absolutely, yes, I agree, relieved to see my taxi arriving. I came with absolutely limitless enthusiasm for Martin Clunes and
Doc Martin
. I hope the latter survives.
CHAPTER FIVE
I interviewed Martin Clunes when the phone-hacking scandal had just exploded and we journalists were very much on the back foot. He, like Hugh Grant, Steve Coogan and a host of other actors, obviously felt the time was right to clobber the press, even to the point of abolishing its centuries-old freedom. But what shocked me was how many of my friends suddenly started fulminating against journalists. I hadn’t realised we were so generally loathed.
Of course, my friends added, ‘We don’t mean you, Lynn,’ but the truth is I am deeply wedded to my profession. I am, and remain, proud to be a journalist, especially in Britain where we have the most varied and lively newspapers in the world (have you ever tried reading the Australian press?) and would be heartbroken if press freedom were abolished. Of course there were abuses, and probably will be again, but they can be curtailed by specific legislation. Most of the outrages that were committed were already illegal anyway.
I have never hacked a phone, or doorstepped a celebrity, but I don’t want to sound pi about it because the simple explanation is that I’ve never worked for the tabloids. And I can’t be as disapproving as most of my non-journalist friends seem to be because the fact is: I like
reading
those stories. I do love a big tabloid scandal. I still remember the pleasure I got from Hugh Grant’s encounter with a Los Angeles tart, or the Duchess of York’s with a fake sheikh. I was really glad to learn that Clint Eastwood’s idea of foreplay (according to an ex-girlfriend) was asking, ‘Did you floss?’ and that Boris Becker managed to father a child in a broom cupboard in Nobu. These sorts of details are the spice of modern life. So, as a reader, I’m complicit in every press intrusion because I enjoy reading the
fruits
of it and would be very sorry if we had the sort of (much stricter) privacy laws they have in France. Incidentally, I’m always shocked that some of my respectable friends who say sniffily that they don’t want to know about Hugh Grant’s escapades will happily read page after page about gruesome murders and children held captive in cellars – stuff that I find far more troubling and, yes, obscene, than some film star paying for a blowjob.
Because of my weird career trajectory, hopping straight from Oxford to
Penthouse
, and then, after a long career break, to Fleet Street, I never had a proper journalist’s training and sometimes wish I had. In particular, I could have done with some training in media law – I had to pick up an understanding of libel as I went along. And it became a very serious matter when I was on the
Sunday Express
in the 1980s because libel damages suddenly shot through the roof – Jeffrey Archer pocketed half a million in 1987 when the
Daily Star
said he’d slept with a prostitute. Consequently, the business of ‘legalling’ articles – getting them checked and passed by the in-house lawyers – which had been rather a formality before, suddenly became a vital part of my job.
Luckily, we had some excellent in-house lawyers at the
Sunday Express
who took me under their wing and explained that even though I ‘felt’ that so and so was lying, it wasn’t actually advisable to say so in print unless I had some evidence to back it. Eventually we arrived at a good modus operandi whereby, instead of trying to censor myself, I would write whatever I wanted and then send it to the lawyers who would summon me for a sort of viva – a bit like an Oxford tutorial but a lot more fun. They would have my article in front of them with many words underlined and other words crossed out – this was in the days when we still had typewriters and paper, O best beloved, and lawyers had red pens. Then the interrogation would start: What is your evidence for saying this? Are you sure the quote is accurate? Are those his
exact
words? Do you have a shorthand record of it? (Bizarrely, in those days, judges would accept shorthand notes as evidence but not tape recordings – if I ever
had
been sued for libel I would have had to get someone who knew shorthand to make a shorthand transcript of the tape.) These sessions taught me the absolute necessity of keeping tapes, and making sure I transcribed them accurately, and the lesson was duly engraved on my heart.
Then the negotiations would start. ‘Do you
have
to describe her hands as “withered”? Couldn’t they be weathered?’
‘No – they were rather pale.’
‘Wrinkled?’
‘Well they were wrinkled, but more withered, as if they had shrunk. What about “gnarled”?’ I would say, trying to be helpful.
‘No, “gnarled” is as bad as “withered”. Do you have to describe her hands at all?’
‘Yes, because that’s the giveaway [we were talking about Zsa Zsa Gabor]. Her face looks pretty good but her hands reveal her age.’
‘Oh all right, you can have “withered”,’ the lawyer would sigh and put a little tick by the word.
Some of the lawyers rather fancied themselves as writers so these discussions could go on, enjoyably, for hours. ‘ “Poofy”, Miss Barber? The
Sunday Express
does not use the word “poofy”. Can you suggest an alternative?’
‘ “Effeminate”?’
‘No.’
‘ “Camp”?’
‘I don’t think our readers know what that means. “Dandified”?’
‘Mm – but that doesn’t mean the same as “poofy”.’
‘Quite.’
Sir John Junor, who had been editing the
Sunday Express
for thirty years when I joined, maintained that you could not be sued for libel if you framed something as a question. It was a practice that seemed to work for him, so I followed it, though I’m not sure it ever had any proper legal basis. Thus, I could ask my old boss Bob Guccione if he was connected with the Mafia, and put the question in the article, so long as I followed it with his denial. But it meant I could at least float the idea, which readers could ponder for themselves. People were terribly shocked in 1990 when I asked Sir Jimmy Savile if it was true that he liked little girls. He had just been given a knighthood! He was a friend of the Royal Family! He had raised zillions for charity! How could I ask him such a terrible thing? But it was a rumour that was very widespread (and subsequently turned out to be true, though not until after his death) and I felt I had to tackle it. Sir Jimmy was momentarily flustered by the question but not, I think, surprised. He obviously knew the rumour existed. And of course he denied it. But at least by posing the question, I’d alerted readers to the possibility.
My sessions with the
Sunday Express
lawyers amounted to a useful libel training, and in fact I only ever landed the paper with one writ – from Frank Warren, the boxing promoter, who was a famously keen litigant – which was settled out of court. But while I was at the
Sunday Express
, I had an extremely lucky libel escape. I was asked to do an article about the fashion world, and happily ran round interviewing designers and attending catwalk shows. I noticed in the latter that Rastafarians seemed to be all the rage – it was a rare show that didn’t feature at least one model with dreadlocks. I mentioned this to the fashion editor who said oh yes, Rastafarians were
the
hot new accessory and the designer Katharine Hamnett actually lived with one. I gleefully put this in my article, thinking that the fashion editor’s word must be good enough. Alas, it was not (she had mixed Hamnett up with someone else) and we duly received a letter from Hamnett saying that she lived with her husband and didn’t even know any Rastafarians. Potentially, she could have sued us for tens of thousands but instead she wrote sweetly that, in case people got the wrong idea, perhaps we could print a small correction? Of course we did, with huge sighs of relief, but it could have been a very costly mistake.
By luck more than judgement, I managed to get through several decades of doing interviews – and often going quite close to the line – without being sued for libel. I ascribe that largely to my habit of tape recording everything and keeping the tapes, but also to discussing potential problems with the in-house lawyers. When I
did
finally find myself in court, in 2011, it was over a book review for the
Telegraph
and I lost. The case took three years to come to court, cost something like £1 million in legal fees (which the
Telegraph
had to pay, thank God, not me) and meant spending literally weeks in consultation with lawyers. My day of cross-examination in court was one of the most unpleasant and exhausting days of my life – the idea that anyone, ever, should ‘look forward to their day in court’ is insane. The whole process was a nightmare, and I’m very glad it didn’t happen to me when I was younger, because it could have permanently shaken my confidence. It must be tempting for young journalists now to avoid all possible legal problems by never writing a single rude word about anyone. But how dull that would be for the readers!
Libel, of course, is the most obvious hurdle you confront as an interviewer, but there are other, much less straightforward ethical questions that have to be decided by your conscience rather than the law. I believe that an article should give an accurate account of what happened in an interview, but some journalists (especially on the
Daily Mai
l
) don’t seem troubled by this rule. They find it alarmingly easy to distort what transpired – for instance, they will give the impression that the interviewee has talked non-stop about their evil ex-husband when in fact they’ve been trying to plug their pet charity, but have foolishly been lured into uttering a few sentences about their failed marriage, leading to headlines like ‘My husband soaked me dry’. I think that’s dishonest, but there is no way you could legislate against it. It is up to the individual journalist’s conscience.
I remain adamantly opposed to ‘copy approval’ – the practice of letting interviewees see the article before publication – but it is now routinely demanded by nearly all A-list stars, along with ‘photo approval’. I think it is betraying the readers to agree but, as a mere writer, one can only say no – while knowing that some other journalist, probably a freelance, will grab the opportunity. It is up to editors to hold the line but I’m not sure that they can do much longer. ‘Copy approval’ started creeping in from magazines like
Hello!
in the 1980s but has now spread to other magazines and, I fear, newspapers. It is invidious.
I need to feel, when I go to interview someone, that I am completely free to like them or dislike them and write as I find. But sometimes that freedom can be compromised. Once or twice editors have let me know that the person I’m interviewing is a friend of theirs, or of the proprietor. I try to nip this in the bud by saying, ‘So what happens if I can’t stand him?’ They always say, ‘Oh I’m sure you’ll love him,’ which can sound like an instruction. I remember when I was at the
Telegraph Magazine
, Emma Soames, the then editor, sent me to Los Angeles to interview Michael Chow, the restaurateur. I found him gloomy, oppressive, and his house the same, full of sinister black-lacquer furniture. His much-loved wife Tina Chow had died in tragic circumstances, of Aids. And there was that notorious Helmut Newton photograph of her, in vestal white, being tied up like a roped steer by Michael Chow. So I gave a pretty sour account of the man. Only then did Emma reveal that he had offered to host a
Telegraph
party at his Mr Chow restaurant in Knightsbridge. But too bad – I couldn’t rewrite the piece saying he was all sunshine and light.
Another increasing awkwardness as I get older is that I often have friends in common with the people I am interviewing. The writer India Knight, for instance, is a friend and got me an interview with
her
friend David Baddiel. I’d met him at a couple of her parties and liked him a lot, so I didn’t anticipate any problem. And indeed I liked him again when I interviewed him – except that he wanted to talk about a film he’d just made called
The Infidel
which I thought was dire. I put a hint to that effect in my piece, and Baddiel was upset – as he relayed to India. I didn’t mind upsetting Baddiel but I did mind upsetting India – though fortunately she was very brisk about it, and told him he couldn’t possibly be hurt by one sharp word of criticism – especially as he’d soon be getting hundreds more from real film critics who hated the film as much as I did.