The Face of the 1970’s

You all know my father. You, like me, grew up with him. You probably wished he was your father and that's where we differ because I was wishing I had your father. I wished I had a normal dad, a 9-5 dad someone who came home at the end of the day and played with us kids, someone who took an interest in our schoolwork, in our lives. Someone who loved us rather than someone who well loved himself. Turn on the TV in the 1970s, open any newspaper and there was a good chance you'd see my dad's smiling face. For about 2 years he was everywhere, except at home with me, my mum and my brother. Don't get me wrong, I knew then how lucky I was, we had a great childhood, no money worries, great holidays, lovely toys and anything we asked for; except time. I know full well it could have been worse, a lot worse. 

For the past 6 months his face has been all over the media again. But this time the spotlight has not been so welcome. (Although I think he's secretly enjoyed the attention.) 6 months ago the police came knocking on his door and took him away for questioning. Operation Yewtree had caught up with him. After 6 hours of questioning he was released on bail to be met by a posse of reporters outside our family home. Of course he denied all wrongdoing, putting on a polished show in front of the cameras, he still had it.  But the evidence was overwhelming, he was going to trial

I've just come out of the courthouse, of course we were supportive of him throughout the ordeal. What could me and my brother do but smile and show our faith in our father. Of course I stood in the steps of the court before the trial and said that my lovely father was innocent of all charges and would be found so. But to be honest, deep down I’d hoped they'd find him guilty, hoped they'd send him down. In fact it wasn’t that deep down, it was just below the surface, just behind that fake smile. 
You see I knew he was guilty, I'd seen his behaviour with my own eyes, they called it ‘tactile’ in court but as I got older I knew it went further than that. He never touched me, not in 'that' way but I knew full well what he was doing was beyond the acceptable norm even if the 70s was a different time and place. 

God the guts it must have taken to come forward and report those assaults. Why didn't you report it at the time my dad's lawyers had asked. There were a range of answers, we did but no one believed us, it would have ruined our careers, we were scared etc etc. The lawyers made the women look like fantasists and liars, out to make a quick buck on the back of the Jimmy Saville case. Then, a string of celebrity friends with their own secrets to hide came and vouched for my dad, came and said that they were never suspicious of anything going on, but not being suspicious doesn’t mean nothing happened. The crème de la crème was my dad’s performance, he took being under oath as being live on air. He turned back the clock and turned on the charm, for a moment even I believed him.

Then it was over to the jury, time for deliberation, but it’s impossible to have a jury of your peers when your face was the face of the 70s. When the people making their minds up still remember your 'hilarious' appearances on Saturday evening peak time TV, when your fate is in the hands of people who wished you were their father or uncle.

So in a moment you'll walk free from that court, walk away from your victims, walk away from your past. But I won't be behind you as you face the press. I'm sorry but I've done my duty, I can do no more. You can walk away from your past, but your victims can’t.  And now what?  The jungle beckons, or Dancing on Ice, you're famous again now, you can milk it while your victims suffer in silence. And I'm left to wonder if Saville himself would have got off if tried by a jury of his peers. 

All characters appearing in this work are fictitious. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental or the result of a guilty conscience.