Easily Distracted

by Steve Coogan

  By ‘these people’, he clearly meant News International.

  I asked him to clarify.

  ‘If you’re in trouble in the future, I could use this as credit to say that you could have taken action but you chose not to. It will be like money in the bank.’

  I put the phone down and considered what he’d said. I had information suggesting that my phone had been hacked, that personal voicemail messages left by friends and family had been intercepted. Could I let that go?

  I carefully thought it through. ‘Do I really want to open this can of worms? The tabloids aren’t writing anything about me at the moment. Maybe it would be better to let it go.’

  And then I thought, ‘Fuck it.’

  I decided it was time to roll my sleeves up. Almost as an experiment, I wanted to see what would happen if I pulled at the thread of News International. I knew it would potentially cost me a considerable sum of money to sue such a powerful company, but I wanted to know exactly what information they had on me. So I applied for a court order to obtain it, and the police provided me with the incriminating documents.

  Both the Met and News International were hiding behind the so-called ‘rogue reporter’ explanation of why, in 2006, a royal correspondent and a private investigator had been arrested for voicemail interception. But I was in the paperwork, and I was as far as you could get from royalty. Only three or four other people were taking legal action at the time, so we were hardly part of a mass movement. More like a fringe sideshow.

  Martin Sixsmith once said to me, ‘You’re a bloody northerner and you like a fight.’ But I wasn’t looking for trouble. I just didn’t want to be one of those people who thinks, ‘Anything for a quiet life.’

  I knew I was about to lay myself open to a press revenge attack, but at least I would be in control this time. The Sunday Times, the Daily Mirror, et al. were no doubt hoping that I wouldn’t take legal action because I wouldn’t want my past raked up again. Ironically, because the tabloids had emptied my closet of skeletons, it made me invulnerable to their bullying tactics.

  I had nothing to hide.

  CHAPTER 14

  AFTER THE ASTONISHING revelation in the Guardian in July 2011 that the News of the World had illegally accessed information from the phone of murdered schoolgirl Milly Dowler in 2002, while she was still missing, the police finally agreed to give information to the lawyer of anyone who suspected their phone had been hacked. I had got a court order and the police were obliged to give me all the information I required, but it still wasn’t straightforward: various officers had blanked out parts of phone numbers to try to limit the amount of information they divulged.

  I felt as though the police were resisting, but eventually I started to uncover what had been going on.

  I discovered a number of distressing things, the most inoffensive of which was that private investigators had been following me to cashpoints and watching how much money I withdrew. I was then presented with pages from Glenn Mulcaire’s notebook. Mulcaire was a phone-hacking specialist at the News of the World who appeared on their payroll soon after Rebekah Brooks’s appointment. He referred to himself as ‘Dr Evil’. He had served a short prison sentence back in 2007 for hacking the voicemails of the royal household, when all the time the police had thousands of pages of his notes showing thousands of non-royal targets. Between then and 2011, Rebekah Brooks had time to implement her infamous ‘email deletion policy’. Millions of records were destroyed.

  Mulcaire’s notebook was full of numbers that appeared to be from my phone. I phoned a girl I’d being going out with and she recognised the redacted numbers. I returned to the police with the missing digits; as far as I was concerned, it was proof that Mulcaire had hacked my phone.

  I then discovered that Andy Coulson had phoned this girl personally and suggested she dress up in sexy clothes for a News of the World photo shoot and in turn the paper would run a story in her favour. Otherwise they would print a not-so-nice story, since they already had the information about her affair with me.

  This woman nearly gave in, but at the last minute changed her mind. Her instinct was right: it seems they obtained the information about her relationship with me illegally and couldn’t use it without her side of the story. It’s what those journalists and editors specialise in: calling your bluff. Getting you to talk so that they don’t need to use the original, illegal source of information.

  It is shocking when you sit down and really think about it: ‘public interest journalism’ is another planet for certain parts of the press. Their output is nothing to do with free expression and everything to do with business. It’s about selling newspapers. It’s just about the only business left that doesn’t have any system of accountability.

  *

  It was strange to be simultaneously seeking legal action and watching the story unfold in the press. But as soon as the Milly Dowler story broke, I was on the right side overnight.

  I used to go into the newsagent’s and see endless hacking stories on the front pages of all the papers. While Paul Dacre, editor of the Daily Mail, was predictably defensive of his paper’s journalistic methods, Nick Davies led the way in the Guardian. With his rigorous, conscientious reporting, Nick revealed the dark heart of the worst kind of journalism.

  Nick may have been the pioneer, but he wasn’t alone: the Financial Times and the Independent also covered the story honourably and properly. The Times and the Sunday Times were, however, slow to join in. Either they thought the story was irrelevant, or they had decided it was in the interest of Rupert Murdoch, their proprietor, not to cover it. Some say Murdoch’s main motivation is that he has a political axe to grind, but I think ultimately he is more concerned about preserving his business interests and maximising his profits at any cost. As a businessman, however, he has to be accountable for his employees acting in an abusive way.

  It was all very well suddenly being on the right side. I still stood to lose a considerable amount of money. I quickly decided that I didn’t care. I thought, ‘I’m going to ask questions. I might not win any damages, but those questions have to be asked.’

  At the eleventh hour, News International’s lawyer said to me, ‘Look, whoever loses or wins, do you want to split the legal costs?’

  I said, ‘No. If I lose, I pay. If you lose, you pay. I’m not splitting anything.’

  The lawyer came back and said, ‘OK, News International will give you £250,000 to go away now. If they win the appeal, they’ll take all the money off the table and they won’t give you a dime. They’ll see you in court.’

  At that point, I’d spent way more than £250,000 on legal fees and would be considerably out of pocket even if I accepted the News International offer.

  I went home and asked myself what the worst-case scenario would be. My life wouldn’t be destroyed. I probably wouldn’t lose my house, against which I was borrowing, but I might be financially crippled for a few years. I might have to do well-paid work I wasn’t interested in. I was lucky that I was able to take that kind of financial risk.

  News International was gambling on the fact that I had limited resources and would therefore snap up their offer. The truth is that most people, regardless of their financial status, would accept such an offer. It’s very easy to compromise one’s ethics when the financial stakes are so high.

  But I had a point to prove and I didn’t want to give in to bullies. I wanted to make public the behind-the-scenes behaviour of some journalists who think ‘ethics’ is where Page 3 girls with lisps come from – either that or they are pressurised into finding stories with no-questions-asked methods to satisfy editors and proprietors. It has everything to do with profit margins and nothing to do with freedom of expression.

  So I stood firm and waited anxiously for the judge’s decision that afternoon.

  The judge decided in my favour. Later, News International had to give me an apology in open court and pay me damages. After I had paid my lawyers I still ended up £30,000 out of po
cket.

  Until the judge gave his verdict, I had no idea if I was going to win. It was certainly a close call. I don’t think I ever proved beyond reasonable doubt that my phone was hacked, but the judge said it was a reasonable assumption that News International had tried to get into my phone.

  The money had become largely irrelevant. People would ask what was in it for me and the answer was simple: beyond wanting answers, I wanted to remind News International that power comes with responsibility.

  And the fight gave me back my self-esteem. Thanks, Rupert.

  *

  After I sued the News of the World, I agreed to give evidence at the Leveson Inquiry. Set up by David Cameron in July 2011, it was a public, judge-led inquiry, divided into two parts, that explored the relationships between the press and the public, the press and the police, and the press and politicians.

  In the same month, July 2011, Rupert Murdoch announced the closure of the News of the World. It was still flogging an astonishing 2.8 million copies a week, but the torrent of hacking allegations and accusations of a cover-up forced Murdoch’s hand. The tipping point was not the hacking of Milly Dowler’s phone coming to light, it was the flight of advertisers. Like I say, for Rupert Murdoch and his ilk, it is all about business. I still think it’s unforgivable that, until phone hacking became a matter of public knowledge, the bribing of public officials was not taken seriously by the police.

  Standing up to Murdoch had been nerve-racking, but it meant I was ready to give evidence at Leveson. It was bloody hard-going; it made me appreciate writing stupid, funny gags with Neil and Rob. I really missed the levity of Alan Partridge.

  I don’t regret speaking up, but it was a huge learning curve for me.

  This may sound naive, but what shocked me most was the way some journalists behaved as though their job had nothing to do with the truth and everything to do with being tribal. And those who do strive to uncover the truth – such as the Guardian’s Nick Davies – are reviled by some of their peers for not being a journalist’s journalist, for not displaying loyalty at all costs. Revealing the truth made him a traitor. Somehow, your first loyalty as a journalist shouldn’t be to the truth or to the public interest, but to your fellow hacks and your proprietor. Always the company, right or wrong.

  By closing ranks, the journalists and editors who oppose effective press regulation are trying to put a stop to any kind of productive or sensible discussion. They would rather fight than talk. Because if you fight, you don’t need to get into the detail of the argument. You don’t have to defend your appalling behaviour. And the truth will never out.

  The dark underbelly of how some journalists and editors behave may have been exposed by the Leveson Inquiry, but people are still arguing that an unaccountable and feral press is the price we have to pay to live in a democracy. It is not, of course. Just look at any other healthy Western democracy and their newspapers. Free and feisty, but not out of control.

  There’s also an element of what I think of as intellectual, middle-class, liberal guilt applied to working-class journalists. They’re working class, ergo they’re allowed to behave badly. It’s misguided and it’s patronising.

  Whenever I talk about press regulation, certain parts of the media caricature what I say. They distort my words and mock me and Hugh Grant as nothing more than poster boys for Hacked Off. We laugh at the fact that tabloid editors (including the once-proud Times and Telegraph) would rather target us than refute us.

  Far from being a well-funded PR machine, we really are a motley crew. According to the papers we are two vain/failed/rich actors, some ‘ambulance-chasing’ lawyers, a few dandruffy professors from ‘provincial’ universities, and the odd (very odd) lefty activist. What they do not mention – because they dare not admit it – is that at the heart and soul of Hacked Off lie the real victims of press abuse, including the McCanns, Milly Dowler’s sister Gemma, and Bristol landlord Christopher Jefferies.

  It’s easy to get sucked into a debate about press responsibility that you could, of course, argue matters to no one outside the M25. But I want to see an effective system of independent press self-regulation. An effective system of redress for the disempowered is, of course, entirely consistent with free expression.

  I’m certainly not alone. In November 2013, 100 prominent figures signed a declaration urging newspaper and magazine publishers to embrace the Leveson Royal Charter. The signatories included Stephen Fry, John Cleese, Stephen Frears, J. K. Rowling, David Hare, Tom Stoppard, Salman Rushdie, John Pilger and Will Hutton, many of whom know perhaps a little more about free speech than Kelvin MacKenzie or Piers Morgan.

  For some reason, those signatories are seen as difficult targets for the papers to attack, whereas I’m slagged off as a ‘celebrity’, used, in this instance, as a pejorative term to try to undermine the credibility of what I say.

  When Andy Coulson was finally sentenced to eighteen months in prison, Hacked Off was asked to respond on television. Executive Director Joan Smith, a writer and journalist, and herself a victim of press abuse, went along with Gemma Dowler. And guess what? The producer was frustrated because Hugh Grant and I weren’t there to put ‘celebrity’ into a news programme. And the press were frustrated too because we are so much easier to attack when they can write about how we are only out to avenge all those nasty little tabloid stories about us.

  It’s worth remembering that Lord Leveson said he would be watching the Daily Mail carefully during the inquiry because their attacks on Hugh Grant and me were likely to prove intimidating to other witnesses.

  Since then I’ve always regarded attacks by the Daily Mail as a badge of honour. Paul Dacre is, like all bullies, a coward. Although some people remain intimidated by him, I find that it helps to think of The Wizard of Oz.

  Far from being this big, booming voice, the Daily Mail is just a little man behind a curtain.

  *

  When I was suing News International and giving evidence at Leveson, my publicist was convinced I was on a suicide mission.

  By early 2014, when Philomena was Oscar nominated and Alpha Papa had proved a huge success, he had changed his mind: ‘Look at you now. You just set yourself free.’

  Was I playing with fire? Yes. Would people have me buried alive if I fucked up? Yes.

  I can see why some people would rather I keep my mouth shut unless I’m shouting ‘A-ha’ every now and again.

  But that’s not me.

  I am a serious person. I like to do funny things. The fact that the ‘me’ who has emerged in recent years isn’t consistent with the earlier tabloid perception of ‘me’ as always shagging some bird is not my problem.

  I haven’t changed. The perception of me has changed.

  PART TWO

  CHAPTER 15

  ON 27 JANUARY 1979, when I was thirteen, I wrote a four-page letter in green ink to my older sister, Clare, who was at university. I began with:

  Sorry I haven’t written for ages and I said I would, but I just couldn’t be bothered.

  What a wag and a wit I was.

  I went on to tell her about my morning paper round and how I had recently been given a rise from £2.64 to £3 a week.

  Do not think that as soon as I get my wages I spend them. Oh! no! Definitely not, no! No!

  I was saving assiduously for a school trip to Lourdes, the cut-price Catholic Mecca. I kept my money in a small but weighty cast-iron piggy bank that my dad, unable to walk past a skip without having a rummage around, had no doubt salvaged.

  Mum and me made an agreement (a cold! business type one). Mum said I pay £50 and she pays £70 … My trip takes me to Lourdes mainly, but we will be stopping off at Paris on the way for a day or two. I not only hope to gain pleasure from this trip, but education too. And that means no chasing French bar maids!

  The trip was my first one abroad. The coach had no air conditioning, but we were happy to sweat and laugh our way across the Pennines and on to Paris. The French teacher, who wasn’t remotely reli
gious, sat at the back of the bus telling dirty jokes. He wore Cuban heels, flared trousers and a shirt that, slashed to the waist, revealed a medallion and a hairy chest. He looked like the fourth Bee Gee. If The Bee Gees had ever had a Pete Best, it would have been him.

  Even then we knew he was slightly ridiculous. He loved Saturday Night Fever and insisted that disco was where it was at; he dismissed punk and new wave as noise. At the same time as being a good Catholic altar boy, I was also getting into slightly nihilistic music that was, as far as I could tell, mostly about concrete urban decay.

  The soundtrack to my life as I entered my teen years included The Jam and Blondie, and The Human League, who were like a northern Kraftwerk.

  The lyrics to The Undertones’ ‘My Perfect Cousin’ encapsulate the period for me perfectly, conjuring up that sense of finding a new, exciting sound and using it to define who you are. The line ‘Playing along with the art-school boys’ always comes back to me when I think of that time.

  So I was a snob. And I didn’t hold back in my letter to Clare.

  Our French teacher is INSANE. He is in his early 20s and has a moustache and shoulder-length hair. He’s just one big corny cliché. He’s into Bee Gees, ‘Grease’ and other commercial rubbish. I’m really into heavy punk, Clash, Sex Pistols, Siouxsie and the Banshees, but I do like Buzzcocks. I hate ELO and I’m going to get a Sex Pistols LP called ‘Never Mind the - - - - - - - - Here’s the Sex Pistols’. I also like X-Ray Specs [sic].

  We were, however, happy to hear the French teacher’s dirty jokes, which weren’t really appropriate for a coachload of Catholic schoolboys.

  Not that I was offended: I wasn’t religious, beyond thinking Catholics were sort of right and everyone else was sort of wrong. And I was a bit confused about sex; not long after the school trip, sex became the most awkward thing in the world.