Sir Fred Goodwin’s Penance

If we were not permitted to report parliamentary proceedings we would not be able to observe that, protected by parliamentary privilege, the Liberal Democrat MP John Hemming revealed the existence of a superinjunction taken out by Goodwin to prevent reporting on, well, who knows what? But for Mr Hemming’s actions, revealling the existence of this superinjunction would risk being held in contempt of court.

Two things arise from this: what kind of judge thinks it appropriate to grant the kind of injunction that includes an injunction on revealing its existence? Is the judiciary not troubled by the apparent ease with which rich public figures can purchase protection from being inconvenienced in any fashion by the press or, eventually, public? Doubtless there may be privacy concerns arising from time to time but the increasingly common – we are led to believe – recourse to the superinjunction is deeply troubling.

Secondly, just how stupid is Fred Goodwin? Very, it seems. Which brings me to Kenny Farquharson’s fine column this week. Kenny notes that:

When the Goodwin saga was at its height I spoke to a friend who works in public relations. He assured me there would be a mea culpa strategy for Goodwin to repair, at least a little, his reputation in the eyes of the world. A large donation to a good cause. Some voluntary work, maybe. A visit to a school in Malawi in need of a benefactor. Or the offer of his still considerable talents to some deserving charity or foundation, pro bono. A little sackcloth, said my friend, and Fred would be fine.

That’s not the Goodwin we see before us today.

No it isn’t. Like Kenny I find it bizarre that Goodwin has taken none of the steps that might, you think, rehabilitate his reputation to at least some degree. Perhaps he is devoting himself to fine causes but prefers to do so privately, in which case good for him. One could admire, actually, the stoicism this might entail. There’d be something admirable in doing private good while bearing the brunt of public scorn that could be alleviated or somewhat diminished simply by discreetly publicising hitherto private actions. This would be a hairshirt policy of penance, if you like, made more piquant by the recollection of how much Sir Fred enjoyed his reputation as the Prince of Bankers and swaggering national champion to boot. Call it the Profumo Option.

The alternative, of course, is that he thinks he’s been ill-treated and doesn’t care what anyone thinks and wishes to be, despite his unusual situation, an ordinary private citizen. But of course ordinary private citizens don’t tend to be the types able to take out superinjunctions. In the parlance of the age, perhaps he just “doesn’t get it”.

As PR strategies go, this seems an uncommonly rum one.