Not so long ago on this here blawg, I posed the following question,
"How soon before Mr Purcell's £5,000 a day crisis management team manage to sell his exclusive, 'How the Evil Cyber Nats turned me into a Cokehead.' story to one of the Scottish tabloids?
It seems that the answer was exactly 21 days, a mere three weeks, during which time the Scottish bloggeratti and our meeja have hummed, hawed, empathised, condemned, cajoled, conjectured, postulated, fumed and become increasingly exasperated at the drip, drip, drip of real news and the veil that the Labour party and their establishment and media friends have attempted to draw over the whole sorry mess.
In a spectacularly badly timed reappearance for the Labour parties re-election chances, Mr Purcell has popped up in Ireland en route back from Australia, to set the world to rights, fess up to coke use, boozing, blethers with senior plod and err falling through the ice. So much for the supposed munificence of his big business Caymen based backers...
Anyhoo, this past weekend saw the Labour Party spring conference lose money by hiring a decent sized hall at the SECC and throw a hugely expensive cordon of security around it to protect the Prime Minister. In reality there were more security people there than delegates, the applause during Brown's leaders rallying call was simply embarrassing and probably attracted less people than a kiddies birthday party for young Peter File.
The weekends sound-bites for Labour politicians Brown and Murphy, when grilled by the oleaginous GlenCampbelly and Paxman on buns, Brian Taylor, about Purcell, was that this was, " a personal tragedy" - the absurd anti-SNP "don't knock Glasgow" - "no evidence of wrongdoing, move along please."
David Dinsmore, 63, the editor of the Scottish Sun appeared on BBC Radio Scotland's Good Morning Scotland this morning and threw out the remaining vestiges of what journalistic integrity he might ever have possessed (stop snorting at the back) with the early morning bathwater.
In an interview lasting a mere three minutes, Dinsmore 72, appeared like a toddler looking for approval when handing its mother a fresh pooh, he trumpets that his paper triumphed in getting the story that every other journalist wanted. His 'confession' that Purcell was both a contact and a personal friend (note past tense) was no barrier to Disnmore, 87, crushing Purcell with hard hitting questions normally reserved for celebrity rapists and footballers burdz. Listening to the interview was like reading a Labour party press release, rather than that of a man who is supposed to show loyalty to his readers and employers. The lines between hack and Labour acolyte have been seriously blurred here, how can Dinsmore, 59, seriously not see that Purcell and his ilk don't choose to be friends with tabloid editors, they schmooze them and abuse them whenever possible. Naturally it's a relationship that works both ways. What was reprehensible was for Dinsmore, 68, to ignore the web of deceit, lies, patronage, bungs and favouritism that his colleagues across the 4th estate have exposed, which he in turn dismisses and undermines.
The one piece of PR fluff that sticks out, (I have a talent for these things) was his contention when asked about an inquiry into the wrongdoing, that just about every thinking person in Scotland has demanded, that there was "lots of smoke but no fire." Naturally he parroted out the Labour lines as if somebody had a hand up his back. It was a "personal tragedy", his readers can't fail to have "sympathy for Purcell" and so on. It's really vomit inducing stuff.
Of course, there'll be questions as to how much Steven Purcell was paid for his 'exclusive' interview? Our BBC man funnily enough didn't ask this question. Loyal Labour supporters have also got to question Steven Purcell's tactical nous and loyalty to the people's party. By selling his story to the Sun has he just had his Graeme Souness Hillsborough moment? The Sun down south have come out for the Tories. How can they support British Labour here but not British Labour down south?
So in tribute to the sad end to a beautiful friendship that saw Steven and David smile coyly across the table at James Mortimer's Rogano, shared smiles and laughs no more, a fleeting brushing of hands as they reached for their respective coats in the cloakroom. I give you the saddest music in the world, ever.
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