Writing for Fun
September 2019
Crusade - Anne Wilson
The television programme had gone exactly as she had expected and the bespectacled, middle aged woman smiled to herself with satisfaction at the ridicule she had incited from the audience. It was, in many ways, a cynical reaction by a moral crusader (perceived by many as unworldly) but she was pragmatic enough to know that there is no such thing as bad publicity.
She was of a contradictory nature. On the one hand, recoiling from an ever-changing world that viewed the decline in morality and respect for authority with a tolerance she found unacceptable; but on the other, (perhaps not conscious of the irony) one intent on finding hidden meanings and nuances (particularly in the arts) where none had been intended in the first place.
She rose briskly from her seat on the platform to the mutterings of an audience also rising and about to make their exit from the premises. They were the usual BBC gathering, she mused: mostly young - the men long-haired and often bearded and scruffy and the women with long, straggly hair and skirts that she considered to be unbecomingly short. They had all been vociferous and scathing in response to her views. Some shook their heads at her pityingly whilst gathering up their belongings and others just stared in pity and derision. What the Corporation lacked, in her opinion, was their reluctance to embrace and include what she deemed to be respectable men and women of her age and background. The sort of women, for example, who were the bastions of the Women’s Institute or the church and who would be accompanied by equally respectable men who were also pillars of the community.
She suddenly caught sight of a woman who was the exception to any of the BBC demographics. Older and smartly dressed in an understated sort of way that exuded good breeding; the woman appeared to be on her own and had not uttered a word throughout the proceedings. The bustling, bespectacled crusader made a bee-line for her and extended her hand.
‘It’s a pleasure to see you here,’ she said gushingly, inexplicably adopting a greeting the hostess of a cocktail party might give to an invited guest. ‘I don’t know how you managed to contain yourself with all this nonsense going on. You didn’t utter a word.’
The woman extended her own hand. ‘I can’t say it wasn’t difficult,’ she smiled enigmatically, raising her eyebrows as she did so.
They walked towards the door and out through the corridor, one behind the other. The effusive crusader turned towards her once they were on the steps, struggling with her tight-fitting gloves on each hand with characteristically rigorous determination until they settled there in pristine, unwrinkled fashion.
‘I have some time to kill before my train leaves,’ she said eagerly. ‘Would you like to have a cup of tea somewhere, or are you in a hurry? It’s always a pleasure to meet a kindred spirit.’
The woman regarded her quizzically and looked at her watch.
‘Why not?’ she responded.
There were not many attractive eating venues near the BBC Studios but they settled on a drably decorated café within walking distance and brought their teas over to a Formica-topped table.
‘I think it’s only fair to explain to you, Mrs. Whitehouse,’ the woman began as they sat down, ‘that I am not in any way a kindred spirit. I couldn’t disagree more with what you are doing.’
There was a short silence, during which she thought she detected the twitch of a bespectacled nose in indignation.
‘But I thought . . .’ came the spluttered response.
‘I know what you thought,’ said the woman mildly as she stirred her tea, ‘Because I’m older and because of my appearance, you automatically assumed I would share your views. You should never jump to conclusions.’ It was a rebuke imparted without malice but with a wry smile.
The self-satisfied Cheshire cat smile of the crusader opposite faded visibly.
‘I must say I’m very surprised,’ she sniffed. ‘Surely all right-thinking people must see what’s happening in the world and how the BBC must take much of the blame.’
‘I don’t think the BBC should bear responsibility for the world’s ills,’ replied the woman dryly.
‘It started off with that programme with David Frost,’ said the crusader, ignoring the remark. She thought for a moment. ‘“That Was The Week That Was.’’ That was the start of the decline in respect for people in authority like politicians. Everything went downhill from then on.’
The woman leaned over to her.
‘It could be argued,’ she countered, ‘that the programme would never have got off the ground in the first place had it not been for the Profumo affair several months earlier. What example was being set there?’
There was a short silence, during which the Whitehouse nose twitched, in a combination of indignation and pique that she had been temporarily trounced. She decided to try another tack.
‘The BBC revels in flaunting sexual content and moral degradation in most of its programmes,’ she intoned. ‘Nothing but filth for most of the time. Why can’t we have more programmes like ‘Dixon of Dock Green?’ Her eyes misted over. ‘Do you know, I’ve watched that for years and I still love it?’
‘It’s hardly very realistic, though, is it?’ responded the woman evenly. ‘It stars an arthritic actor in his early seventies playing a policeman on active duty. It was fine when it started but it’s being going on for too long. I’m afraid one does have to make concessions according to the times we live in.’
The bespectacled woman was floundering slightly and getting flustered.
‘What example is being set to the young?’ she said shrilly, banging her fist on the table and making the tea spill over her cup into a puddle on the saucer. ‘I was a teacher and I care about the future of our young people.’
‘I was a teacher too,’ her confronter argued. ‘An English teacher in a grammar school. Using your criteria half the works on our curriculum, including those by Shakespeare and Chaucer, would have been unavailable to my pupils.
Mary Whitehouse was not entirely sure of her ground here – not knowing the works of either Chaucer or Shakespeare sufficiently well enough to mount a reasoned argument. She was finding herself being wrong-footed by this measured, all too plausible woman and it disconcerted her. She breathed in deeply in order to calm herself.
‘It’s not only the television,’ she blustered. ‘It’s even spread the pop music young people listen to. I’ve written to the BBC on numerous occasions asking them to ban that dreadful song from being played on the radio, ‘My Ding A Ling.’ And will they listen? No.’
‘Yes, and it’s now at number one,’ the woman retorted, in an irony lost on her listener. ‘It’s double entendre, Mrs. Whitehouse, like a saucy seaside postcard and about as harmful. It relies on the listener’s interpretation.’ She smiled knowingly. ‘My dear old father used to say to me - “to the pure all things are pure” – and I think there’s a certain amount of truth in that. To an innocent mind, the singer is recalling a favourite toy of his childhood. You may think differently.’ She smiled but this time with a knowing, mischievous smile – once again the irony of the remark lost on the crusader. ‘Sometimes people just want something to cheer them up and make them laugh and if it’s not cruel or violent I don’t really see the problem with that.’ Seeing the deflated, shrinking figure sitting opposite, her innate kindness got the better of her. ‘I would back anyone’s concern about the depiction of too much violence, though,’ she added, offering the semblance of an olive branch.
Mary Whitehouse bristled.
‘Oh, it’s fashionable to say that,’ she said haughtily. ‘Nobody wants to be seen to stand up for the things I believe in, but every left-wing person under the sun wrings their hands about the spread of violence in the cinema and on television and the influence it may have on those who commit crimes.’
‘It should be your chief concern,’ the woman said. ‘Not this ferreting around looking for things that will then make you quiver with outrage because they offend your sensibilities.’ Her temper began to rise. ‘What I really dislike is being told by you that I’m not capable of making my own mind up about watching a programme with an adult theme when I’m an educated woman. Only I should be the judge of what I can or can’t see. Not you and your acolytes. You can’t speak for a whole nation of people when many don’t necessarily want or need you to.’
‘And what if some do?’ Mary Whitehouse responded, having regained some of her spirit.
‘Then they’ll always have you, Mrs. Whitehouse,’ said the woman as she stood up. She paused as she reached the door. ‘It was interesting to meet you. But just tell me one thing, will you? Who tells you what you should or shouldn’t see? Who monitors you?’
Her adversary’s mouth gaped open and then shut again. For once she was lost for words.