Dani Garavelli: Spare us the celebrity moans

THERE is a strange symmetry to the revelation that the final nail in the News of the World’s coffin should have been a spurious story in a newspaper with an agenda.

Because make no mistake about it: the Guardian’s Milly Dowler story killed it off.

The phone-hacking allegations were damaging enough, but it was the claim that private investigator Glenn Mulcaire had deleted some of Milly’s messages, giving her parents false hope that she was still alive, that pushed the paper past the point of no return.

Now it appears only the Dowlers, their lawyer and the Guardian ever really believed that was true. Indeed, the messages disappeared before Mulcaire became involved.

Even as the Dowlers brought down a 168-year-old institution, even as they gave their poignant evidence to the Leveson Inquiry, Scotland Yard was convinced the messages had been deleted automatically by the phone company.

This is by no means a plea for sympathy for the News of the World, whose sometimes spurious, sometimes unethically sourced stories caused pain to so many. Nor am I trying to argue that the apparent inaccuracy of this one story makes an investigation into press excess any less necessary.

But I do think it serves as a reminder to those following the Leveson Inquiry that it’s not just tabloid reporters who sometimes get it wrong, and as a warning that – while, clearly, journalist-bashing is the pastime du jour – not every complaint being relayed to the panel is worthy of the airtime devoted to it.

And that’s my main issue with the Leveson Inquiry: that its real purpose – to root out and prevent future malpractice – is being undermined by a succession of public figures with bees in their bonnets; that the genuine tales of press excess are being drowned out by the noise of axes being ground.

On some days, court 73 of the Royal Courts of Justice has seemed more like a therapist’s treatment room than a judicial inquiry, as one celebrity after another has complained about their treatment.

There have been some genuinely shocking revelations. It was awful, for example, to hear JK Rowling tell of her distress at realising a reporter had smuggled a letter into her then primary school daughter’s schoolbag.

But compare this with the testimony of Sienna Miller, Hugh Grant and Steve Coogan, which was little more than a moanfest on the pitfalls of being rich and famous. Of course their phones shouldn’t have been tapped, but are we really supposed to compare their plight to that of the Soham families or the Dowlers?

Are we supposed to feel overly sorry for Coogan because tales of his excessive lifestyle made it into print? Or for Charlotte Church because her lawyers signed her up to a Faustian pact, waiving her £100,000 fee for playing at Rupert Murdoch’s wedding in exchange for favourable publicity?

So sensitive is the issue of press intrusion, there has been an unwillingness to keep even more compelling witnesses’ testimony relevant or to tackle the most unpalatable issues.

For example, several witnesses – including Max Mosley, Church and former footballer Garry Flitcroft – have insisted that coverage of scandals they were involved in led to the death, suicide or attempted suicide of a close relative. In the current heightened atmosphere, these hugely emotive claims have fuelled public outrage.

Of course editors should think carefully about the possible consequences of their stories before they go to press. But is anyone really suggesting that newspapers should dump every potentially distressing story on the off chance that it will drive some vulnerable person over the edge? How would that even be workable in an era when, as the failure of superinjunctions has demonstrated, such stories will continue to spread on the internet regardless?

And that’s the other thing about the Leveson Inquiry: when I listen to witnesses talk about cracking down on press intrusion, it all sounds frightfully old tech. Seriously, how relevant is the discussion of a right to privacy in a world where anyone in possession of a mobile phone can become an impromptu paparazzo? What’s the point of celebrities complaining about their every move being recorded when you can’t even chase your out-of-control dog across Richmond Park, shouting “Jesus Christ, Fenton” without finding yourself a YouTube sensation?

Believe me, I’m no apologist for tabloid sensationalism. Some of the practices which have come to light over the past six months have shocked even veteran reporters. And if it helps those who have been affected to air every grievance in a public forum, then so be it. But if the Leveson Inquiry wants to curb tabloid excesses while retaining press freedom then it’s going to have to be more than a sounding board for the aggrieved. If it’s going to change the face of British journalism, then it’s going to have to ask some really challenging questions, not only about the kind of society we want, but the kind of society we can practically deliver.