Summer of Savile – Day 26: Loftelian PLC
My mind is a dirty and untrusting place, always thinking the worst, never failing to see the bad or to assume that perverse ulterior motives lurk behind selfless acts. Whether that manifests as shouting “I’ve got a gun!” at elderly relatives approaching for a hug at a funeral, or slapping doctors for feeling me up, if you were to see the world through my eyes, it would resemble that optical illusion of a girl’s chuffer that’s actually an ordinary household lamp.
Thus, out of a sense of fair play to Mr. Savile, rather than passing comment on these next extracts, and soiling what clearly, even robbed of any context, are completely innocent statements, with my sarcastic hints of untoward intentions, the only way is to refrain from critical analysis altogether. I will instead be offering up facts from Wikipedia’s comprehensive entry on Ian Beale.
Some schoolgirls on a day trip were idling near a passageway. “Good lord, that dustman’s the spit and image of Jimmy Saville,” said one.
“Ian’s most notable feud has been with Phil Mitchell. Their long-standing rivalry began in 1995, when Phil flushed Ian’s head down the toilet and then married his mother.”
Surrounded by three armed plain-clothes men, we had just arrived, at the Aeolian Hall in London and were set upon by all the kids.
“Ian’s penchant for cooking displeased Pete so much that Ian took up boxing briefly in 1985, just to prove his masculinity.”
A small hotel I used when in London soon became a haven for young men and pop groups who wanted a word of advice or just a suggestion or a chat.
“Ian met a new romantic interest, Jane Collins, in 2004. They were initially hostile to each other, but they became friends and their friendship blossomed into attraction. When Ian acted upon this, Jane rejected him — she was married, and her husband David was terminally ill with Huntington’s disease.”
Walking across the sands with two minders, Barry and Roy, and wearing a floppy hat as a disguise, I was spotted by an eagle-eyed siren. She falls in alongside, peers under the hat and says, “Ha, it is you.” She is in a one piece swimsuit and looks good enough to eat. “Come and meet my parents over here,” she says, taking my arm.
“Ian despaired in 2007 when his daughter, Lucy, became surly and rebellious.”
A high-ranking lady police officer came in one night and showed me the picture of an attractive girl who had run away from a remand home. “Ah,” says I all serious, “If she comes in, I’ll bring her back tomorrow, but I’ll keep her all night first as my reward.”
“In early December, Beale was found crying on the floor of the Queen Vic toilets, and bleeding from the back, in scenes which culminated in the ‘Who Raped Ian?’ storyline that dominated the Christmas 1998 ratings…”
Six girls were selected and all of them given matching mini skirts and white boots, as befitting a ceremonial bodyguard. They looked good enough to eat. I duly arrived. The first thing was that the father of one of the girls arrived and hauled her off home. She protested loudly, but dad would have none of this preposterous situation.
“…In a riff on Murder on The Orient Express, it was eventually revealed (during Phil Mitchell’s engagement party) that Ian’s rape had been jointly perpetrated by every male member of the cast, as well as characters from other shows, who’d crossed over to Albert Square specifically to participate in the act. These included Zach Dingle from Emmerdale, Gladiator Saracen and GMTV’s Eamonn Holmes.”
Such actions earned me the nickname from the boys of Doctor Do-Good. Many deserving cases of all shapes and sizes did I appear with and had no trouble at all. Except the last lot. Two teenage girls they were.
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