I escaped a blond childhood, curly-haired too, not once having been interfered with. Never joined the scouts, nor had much involvement with the drama teachers, didn’t go to a boarding school and must have made a singularly unattractive choirboy.

I did however write to Jim’ll Fix it, but never got selected. Probably insufficiently attractive on the Polaroid. My sisters had closer calls. Each time Uncle Frank was to make one of his annual visits, my mother would convene beforehand a short meeting of the household femininity. She would brief them to never find themselves alone with Uncle Frank, nor to take him up on any kind offer involving one of his troublesome lumps. I wasn’t really part of these special meetings, so she couldn’t have thought me to have been especially at risk, but at least she ensured that I overheard. Jim was to fix it for me to visit the Common Cold Research Unit within the biological weapons manufactory at Porton Down. I’d thought that would have made excellent telly, even then. The stammering Fauntleroy with a snotty nose, still having the pluck to put on a brave face and a gappy smile, and all in the cherubic cause of medical advancement.

Enough articles have been hacked out about how such a weird and talentless character as Saville could possibly have nestled so seamlessly into the Saturday-night telly of the era. What a strange bedfellow he made, alongside such figures as Giant Haystacks, Basil Brush, Bruce Forsyth and Dr. Who. How could we not have known; how the times have changed; it was alright then but really it wasn’t; but let’s, for bucks, focus on the now, and so let’s still worry about the dead ones for a little bit longer.

Paedophilia is the crime of the epoch, the most repulsive thing we can think of anyone doing, the worst crime of all. I’m always surprised how a great many of my otherwise intelligent and broad-thinking colleagues, my diverse peers and even my friends, will detail unbidden their fantasy tortures and imaginative genital mutilations, their vengeful modes of justice summoned up for these arch-perpetrators. There’s not even a flicker of irony. Even genocide doesn’t rouse such human passion. No one regales me with their proposals for a suitable slow and terminal punishment for such unpopular figures such as Radovan Karadzic, Slobodan Milosevic or for Saddam. The opportunity there of course they’ve most tragically already missed. He was merely hung alive, and most sensitively, at Eid.

I was reading an improving book last night. Some prose of Allen Ginsberg, the well-respected beat poet, a darling of the anti-militarists and anti-repressionists. He’s not yet fallen from the starry firmament as far as I’m aware, and I’d neither hope nor expect him to. And yet shot through all the lurid pages, Ginsberg is gamely rogering one after another vulnerable third-world boys with a gay abandon.

The hairy cornflake is now in ‘scope, and Rolf, wherever you look, it’s a knockout for the stars of the 70s. So who’s now then now then on this side of the pond? Basil Brush? Well no, but I recently saw an archive episode of Dr. Who that certainly got me thinking. I’m terrifically pleased to say, that Dr Who is about the only embarrassing thing you’ll find on my hard drive, alongside perhaps an episode of Happy Days and some Buster Bloodvessel EPs.

Dr. Who’s assistants have traditionally been always on the foxy side. Romana in particular was a favourite of mine as a child. I don’t know whether it was a twist of the narrative, or whether something much more mundane was at play, but the actress playing Romana had to change abruptly. The Romana v2 was a dismal replacement for Romana v1. Many’s the dutiful father, and even the precociously cognisant son, who’d found much to admire in Romana v1. However the upstart Romana v2 was no more than a little girl in appearance, and similarly dressed. She wore a schoolgirl outfit, with a blazer and school-badge, the ribbon-boater, little white tights, the whole tawdry lot. Not as raunchy a schoolgirl as you’d find at St. Trinians to be sure, but much more worryingly authentic. What’s also worrying is that the Doctor is on holiday with her, in Paris of all places, the well-known City of Lovers. They lie in the grass and admire cherry blossom, exchange teenage niceties, climb the Eiffel tower, and have little adventures along the way. Call me jaded, but I found it all very sinister, not because of the thing with a wriggling squid for a head, but with the overall romantic undertone. And what an undertone, since Tom Baker as it turns out, was happily banging her offstage, and with not the slightest need for discretion. Which is astounding really, since she was the daughter of the 7th Viscount Bangor, no less. However could this have been missed? Now, she wasn’t nine, nor thirteen, she was a young adult and I’m not for a moment suggesting that Tom Baker (then 45) was a paedophile, which I’m sure he wasn’t and most probably isn’t. But as a litmus test of our own sensitivity to this particular issue, I direct anyone to see through a comfortable early evening episode of City of Death and not find their thoughts provoked.

Historians tell us that every generation lives either under the impression that it’s in a period of unprecedented decline, or conversely on the verge of an upcoming world-order of hope and future progression. I’m not sure where we sit on that hollow spectrum really, but certainly we like to think we’re right these days, right at long last, after wallowing in mires of ignorance for far too long in the past, even in the recent past. Now we all agree, and know for sure, that genocide is really, really bad, and that paedophilia is just about the most unspeakable of things. The smoking of cigars while surrounded by small children in the course of a family TV show, is also, right out these days.

We’ll tolerate and even buy, the colour newspapers showing images only of the prettiest abducted girls and boys. As I write, the Israelis are bombing Gaza. Tomorrow the girls and boys will have to compete with rubble-scenes, since we are still sensitive readers when it comes to stoved-in torsos and moaning. Drones are terrorising the population with noise ambience, each hovering unit ready at any instant to assume missile. F-16s are making air-strikes and residents report continuous intimidating flyovers. Gunboats sail some way offshore, all turrets swivelled, flinging their shells into distant neighbourhoods. The internet is full of images of the dead and dying, with children figuring proportionately in their number. Strategic bombing; the British WWII term for the bombing of acreage, is what’ll win the wars but bury the children alive. The targets of this evening have been refugee camps, targets so traditional that they barely register, also homes, media centres, smuggling tunnels, redoubt sanctuaries. The children of Gaza might well have fragments from their siblings limbs embedded into their brains, but at least they aren’t being abused by Jimmy Saville.

Cities are military targets. The Allies beat Hitler by bombing them, destroying in the process 20% of German housing. The Mayor of Hiroshima is keen to point out that perhaps cities should not be targets. It’s pleasant as a dream, since the sacking of cities is of classical and very probably prehistoric times as well as of our own. The most traditional form of terrorism is that conducted by states, whether the new-weapon terrorism to be found at Hiroshima, the atrocity-terrorism at Nanking, or the tactical-terrorism of the whistling shell and Stuka’s siren, the varieties are endless. Acts of terrorism conducted by states, are now known as counter-terrorism, and those perpetrated by non-states, surely the real form of counter-terrorism, have found themselves counter-nominated.

The Geneva Convention sets out very clearly what is a war crime and what is not. Geneva was not especially bombed. The convention considered the criminal status of things in war, things like the torpedo attacks on merchant shipping, the instantly lofty, moral philosophical stuff. An attack on a passenger liner is a clear atrocity if ever there was one. But the U-boat commanders on trial had only to point out that allied submariners had been tasked to the very same atrocities to get off the hook, Scot-free as it were. So there we have it in perpetuity, torpedoing civilians at sea is fair game in warfare. Churchill’s plans to gas recalicitrant ‘Arabs’ in Afghanistan were from a previous war, so weren’t to be considered at Geneva. Gassing civilians isn’t very British, but that’s not to say that we were not suitably equipped for exactly such action in the 1940s.

The trending revision of terminology is fascinating. A journalist today must take care in use of the term ‘genocide’. Holocaust also now sports an alternative etymology, scholars be damned. However we choose to use the term ‘genocide’, even in the legally-risky broader sense, we all agree that it’s more than naughty. Since 'we' didn’t do it, it’s most definitely an outright war crime. Nuking cities is then, just as Eisenhower had thought, just an extension of conventional arms, and nothing particularly special. That’s why the V2 and V1 weapons of near-mass destruction were not considered at Geneva to be especially naughty. Cruise and intercontinental ballistic missiles, once squared with novel isotopes, were simply too exciting a prospect to be in any way prohibited. Further, the victorious US had as we all now know, lofty plans for their liberated rocket scientists. Hitler, withdrawn in late campaign to his famous bunker, was ordering V2 strikes. The ‘V’ did not designate victory as is commonly supposed. It spelt vengeance, symbolising a strike issued in the face of upcoming defeat as a spoiler, as a reward for the victors from the late-defeated. He chose his city-targets according to his own emotional ideology and not to military science. We can be certain that if he had not ejected German Jewry so early in his campaign, he would have had expertise at his disposal for the manufacture of fissive weapons by 1944 or earlier. We can be equally sure he would have tipped his V2s with exactly such warheads.

It quickly becomes daft, as if such factors of ethics and morality are really at play in total warfare. Whatever chivalrous machine-gun etiquette got played out at Paschendale, did hardly much good. But it’s not a bad thing to consider how well we have been protected by our representative states since they have formed up in our very midst.

I work for a local authority, as a public servant. The 60s building in which I’ve been working is being demolished, from the top-down and into the sub-basement. There, lies a steel-lined strongroom where items of value and notes were stored. Also, a nuclear bunker, and a secret passageway into the basement of the nearby police station. There lies another substantial fall-out shelter, deeply in souterrain, set off-centre from the storeys above. This, one imagines, to ease any later escape-work with the pick and mattock.

I do think Jimmy Saville was a criminal, I do think his memory deserves its brutal revision. I hope very much, that the vigour of this inquiry continues apace. Perhaps a lot of the things we’ve taken at face-value in the past should be put up to the modern scrutiny of our new-found enlightened age. Perhaps the underbelly of society, long driven into the dirt, will in turn bring its’ gaze toward those who would sacrifice us all for a strongroom of deeds and baubles. Those who would make the most meticulous plans for this. Those who in the process of execution would willingly char a continent of strangers in our name. Those who in their act of self-preservation would freeze all of the stunted serf-survivors into long cold barbarism.