An Unmarked Grave

Almost a year ago I blogged about the death of Jimmy Savile and posted the Youtube clip of the Scouts on the roller coaster. Of course, I feel sick now. And betrayed. Savile was in the corner of our living rooms, like a virtual uncle – albeit an eccentric uncle with his trademark wispy white hair, Cuban cigar and annoying yodel. He was part of my generation. A generation who grew up in the 70s watching telly as a family on a Saturday night, after a tea of Goulash and Lemon Meringue Pie. He seeped into our cultural psyche of British quirkiness.

But now, it turns out he was not to be trusted. He was not a good uncle. He was that nightmare that haunts parents. He was a predatory sex offender. A paedophile.

I even included a reference to ‘Jim’ll Fix It’ in my novel ‘The Generation Game’. Wink, an old lady, watches the programme religiously every Saturday evening. Poor Wink would be turning in her fictional grave right now. In fact, I’d like to think she’d somehow arrange to have him castrated in the afterlife. Not that that will help those women who had their teenage years corrupted by him.

So sickening. So sad.


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