The Oldie’s limp saveloy enlivens the BBC’s Jimmy Savile ‘Cover Up Scandal’
THE cock of Sir Jimmy Savile may now be a shrivelled saveloy in its tilted grave that faces Scarborough’s sea, yet what Mrs Thatcher’s favourite DJ did with it and with whom is still the subject of immense fascination and conjecture.
The Oldie is now the unlikely source (via Guido) of further claims that the mummy-loving hospital worker was the subject of a BBC probe into allegations of his molestation of underage girls. A probe whose results never saw the light of day for reasons swathed in BBC beige.
I have no idea what Sir Jimmy did with his saveloy. When I toiled for the late Robert Maxwell at the homophobic Mirror Newspapers, the usual gossip of his sex life involved corpses. Drunken sots who staggered from bar to desk in a state of incomprehension swore blind that they’d seen evidence of hospital necrophilia. We were invited to believe that Sir Jimmy’s hospital charity giving was nothing but a veil for furtive trips to the mortuary for shags with your late Aunt Mildred or the nanny who had once worked at Tesco.
Even I, a seasoned witness to many a celebrity misdoing, found this very hard to believe. If there was evidence, why not publish it?
My scepticism grew when a talented female hack from one of the Mirror papers went to interview Sir J and ended up staying with him for a few months. She gave every impression of being alive though I can’t discount the possibility that he requested she play dead for some saveloy action.
I am quite certain that necrophiles are uncompromising in their needs.
The implication that he may have had paedophile tendencies adds another layer to what is at present a sordid urban myth – unless victims of his predatory behaviour can confirm independently that they were abused by him.
Certainly these new tales are tabloid heaven. Any man who stays single into his dotage and professes to have a libido will be the subject of tabloid speculation, some of it imaginative and exotic. Most newspaper editors are married men with catalogue-approved sex lives (wife, mistress, whatever); so celebrity deviations from the norm are an open invitation to ponder on dark drives and juices. In others.
Sir Jimmy’s life is fast turning into yet another parable against deviation from the rule.
These new claims, however, have a whiff of the verite about them. And I shouldn’t be surprised that the man who regularly enjoyed weekends at Chequers as Mrs Thatcher’s link to reality was a man of dubious and predatory sexual needs – as is so often the case with poodles of powerful women. Yvette Cooper may yet discover this.
Yet in the end all we can know for certain is that Sir Jimmy’s saveloy lies a-mouldering in Scarborough’s soil. Its history a matter of hearsay.
Where would the tabloids be without cock, dead or alive? Just asking!