Ruth Wishart: King's coronation reminds us of how words matter

Because the latter linger in the ­public ­domain, there to be used, ­quoted and ­misquoted at will. The recent ­pronouncement by Professor Sir Tom Devine that recent events had put off ­independence “for a generation” resonated so deeply with his TV audience that he felt the need to pen an explanation in The ­National, contextualising his thoughts.

That he was responding on the hoof to a TV reporter mattered not a jot – if someone with a high profile utters something both newsworthy and controversial, then death by soundbite can easily be the result. And to every Yes-supporting person in the ­country, having someone like Devine rain on their indy parade certainly resonated.

Or take the recent case of Diane ­Abbott, not everyone’s cup of political tea, but, as the first Black woman in the House of ­Commons, a person who has walked through a storm of bigotry and prejudice to follow her star.

When the draft of her letter was ­published in a Sunday newspaper, all hell broke loose. She seemed to be suggesting that, unlike Black folk, travellers, Irish nationals and Jewish people were not subjected to the same degree of naked racism.

She was promptly suspended by her ­party, despite her penning a fulsome ­apology, since Labour had battled long and hard to lose the tag of being antisemitic and any suggestion that they might be lapsing into old ways was deemed to be beyond the political pale.

What the Irish and assorted minorities flagged up thought about her comments was not recorded.

Yet the thing about the awkwardly ­worded Abbott draft letter is that it sort of fell into the category of “we know what she meant”. I doubt anyone with her political antennae thought for a minute that other tribes were not subjected to prejudice, ­rather that having a non-white face usually led to a lifetime of overt bigotry.

As the late Irish comic Frank Carson put it, “it’s the way you tell ‘em”.

And the way you tell ‘em today has never been subjected to more scrutiny. Which is why so many people – politicians and journalists among others – sometimes feel they are having to negotiate a daily minefield and, even if they complete that part of the journey unscathed, the rest of the road involves walking on eggshells. “When in doubt, say nowt” has become the ­survivors’ mantra.

Let’s take the case of Kate Forbes, whose takedown of fellow candidate Humza Yousaf’s ministerial record was ­immediately seized upon by the ­opposition and hostile media. Would she have ­blurted out that much repeated soundbite had there been a longer contest and time and money to consult skilled strategists?

Who knows? It was the kind of ­throwaway line which used to be the stuff of robust political debate, but it was very public and televised and should arguably have been thrown away.

Ditto her very frank response to ­questions about her religion and how it affected her own lifestyle and specifically her views on same-sex marriage.

Some people felt her views were ­anathema in 21st-century Scotland. Some thought she should have merely ­responded that as she wasn’t in ­Holyrood at the time, such matters were up for ­debate, the ­query was entirely ­hypothetical. And still others gave her brownie points for answering honestly.

Would she have won through had she dissembled instead? Again, who knows?

Or take the case of Janey Godley, whose tweets from way back were ­unearthed and republished. She had ­unwisely picked a Twitter fight with some of her ­social ­media detractors, and her then ­racist ­remarks were disinterred by The Sun newspaper, after which she was swiftly cut free from her campaigning work for the Scottish Government during the pandemic.

Like Abbott, she apologised profusely, but the verdict was in and the damage done. As she said herself: “Comedy is no excuse for shocking and hurting people with words. I will endeavour to be better in future.”

And yet the comedy circuit has never been bashful about dealing with ­topics which are foreign to conversation in any other spheres, rape being an ­obvious ­example. Or, for that matter, using ­language with which most people would be uncomfortable.

The rule of thumb here should be that only Jewish people can get away with ­antisemitic humour, only Black comedians will ­survive using the “n” word and only Scots can send up their alleged propensity for meanness.

Janey’s mistake was to allow hostile tweeters to get under her skin instead of merely blocking and reporting them. And she paid a hefty price for it.

It is all too easy to get into a Twitter spat with people who resent your ­opinions, and almost always a mistake. Usually, in any event, the tweeter has chosen to ­recycle views of which you have never ­approved, but which have become tablets of stone in the ether.

Janey’s case was different inasmuch as she immediately held up her hand and admitted she had used racist stereotypes. Thanks to the “helpful” screenshots, she didn’t have much choice, but rather than rage against the revelations, she ­continues to apologise when asked.

Which brings us neatly to the events of this weekend which, inexplicably, I failed to watch or listen to as the joys of the Ullapool Book Festival seemed a rather more enlightening use of my time.

In advance of yesterday’s fancy dress party, the Archbishop of Canterbury – himself no stranger to embroidered get-ups – invited the citizenry to join in an oath of allegiance were they so minded.

This was greeted in some quarters with the kind of language more normally used in the aforementioned late-night comedy routines.

I’m sure you spent some days ­ensuring you were word perfect, but the oath ­actually says: “I swear that I will pay true allegiance to your majesty, and to your heirs and successors according to law. So help me God.”

There was another bit about the king living forever but that proved too North Korean or Thai even for the top bishop to visit upon the nation’s viewers. Maybe it made the cut in unreal life – I’ll never know.

Swearing allegiance to your beloved in a ceremony for a marriage or civil partnership is one thing. Offering your undying devotion to a complete stranger and whatever kith and kin follow on seems a bit OTT. And if you happen not to believe in a God, it’s a bit ambitious seeking help from that source.

The jury is apparently out as to whether this was a bit of freelancing on the part of Lambeth Palace, a sort of ­downmarket Buck House, or whether the notion ­enjoyed the endorsement of the star of yesterday’s shindig.

It was, either way, an entirely daft ­suggestion, not least at a moment when the lieges in question were rather more exercised about feeding their families and keeping them warm.

Some outlets have suggested the ­regal ongauns allowed the population to pack up their troubles for a weekend and ­embrace a welcome distraction from their day-to-day woes. The sort of bread-and-­circuses school.

Not so much let them eat cake, as let them goggle their “betters” in all their finery, not to mention more medals than are generally available at world cups. It did strike me at one point that it would be passing odd if the immediate ­relatives of the late HM were not eligible for ­coronation and jubilee medals of various metallic hues.

And I confess to being mildly envious of all that gold braid since one of my curtain tiebacks has upped and died on me.