In reality, writes David Knight, was Gary Lineker’s return to TV a valiant victory, or one man’s vanity running rampant?
As I turned the page in a gripping war book I was reading, a face from the past came suddenly to mind.
The subject matter made me think of a man I interviewed as a trainee reporter – and how my resulting article from that encounter still makes me cringe with embarrassment even now, years later.
The situation was similar to Lineker’s lament about the British Government’s
approach to migrant boats: Gary said that it resembled the language of Germany in the 1930s.
The explosive political fallout from this came as I read about a building at 84 Avenue Foch in Paris during World War Two. It was formerly an opulent mansion-lined street, not far from the Arc de Triomphe: a fashionable address for the world’s elite.
But, after Germany invaded France, this building was commandeered by occupying Nazi forces, to become Paris headquarters of Germany’s terrifying secret police, the killing machine known as Geheime Staatspolizei. Or, the Gestapo, as it became known for short.
Everyday life there meant everyday death.
The book told the true story of a captured British SAS sabotage unit – codenamed SABU-70 – parachuted deep behind enemy lines just after D-Day, on a mission to cause mayhem. But they dropped into a Nazi trap.
Badly wounded, they were dragged to 84 Avenue Foch and handed over to the Gestapo; allowed basic bandaging, but no proper medical treatment for pain or infection. They were beaten instead, and subjected to weeks of torture.
Eventually, the SAS team was driven miles away into woods in the middle of nowhere and executed by firing squad. But not all of them.
Two escaped among trees (incredibly, eventually making it home) after their doomed comrades hurled themselves at the firing squad to cause a distraction. The pair had mustered the strength to hatch an ingenious plot, using Houdini-like skills, to slip out of their handcuffs when it was time to bolt.
Unknown to them, they were being processed through the Gestapo’s shocking “Nacht und Nebel” (Night and Fog) programme, created on Hitler’s orders. Masses of people disappeared – murdered, never to be heard of again.
It was honed to perfection in Nazi Germany, during the period Gary Lineker was talking about. The Gestapo systematically bumped off fellow citizens in droves during the 1930s, before turning to other European countries.
Does Lineker have regrets?
The reason I was so embarrassed about my own journalistic episode mentioned earlier was quite simple, really. The man I was interviewing had approached me with a string of complaints over his social security benefits, and allegations of poor treatment by government civil servants probing his personal finances.
He was getting quite angry. At one point he blurted out: “They acted like the Gestapo.”
To an inexperienced, slightly naive cub reporter, this was gold dust. It was a bit flash and a kind of Lineker line: a quote to grab attention.
Later, it dawned on me that it was also – like Lineker’s daft, ill-judged analogy – insulting to victims of Nazi state murder.
We remain a country of predominantly tolerant, welcoming and generous people. Thank you. ❤️ 4/4
— Gary Lineker 💙💛 (@GaryLineker) March 13, 2023
I regretted using the quote in my article; it still makes me wince. There were better ways of making the same point, while not compromising free speech with a spurious and inaccurate analogy from history.
I wonder if Lineker regrets it, too, in his heart of hearts?
The reality was that, in 1930s Germany, the Gestapo was placed officially “beyond judicial review” – or any other checks and balances, which exist here in bundles. That meant it could exterminate its own people with impunity: victims regarded as a threat or merely a nuisance, such as Jews, trade unionists and clergy.
They also included adults and children with mental or physical disabilities, who were removed from hospitals and shot, or gassed, as part of a forced euthanasia programme.
A good point was lost in waves of mock horror
Lineker returned to TV in triumph, but with no obvious apology that I could see, apart from a sliver of contrition about Britain being “predominantly tolerant and welcoming”. A valiant victory, or one man’s vanity running rampant?
As with many powerful men, tackling their egos is often harder than tackling the man himself.
It’s not as though Lineker had not been warned in the past. It’s not surprising that the BBC finally tried to make a stand.
The football pundit’s wealthy pals and various political opportunists piled in, claiming Lineker’s suspension from Match of the Day was an attack on free speech, while orchestrating further political assaults on the government’s migrant boat policy.
The BBC did make a mess of it, but the original point was lost in waves of mock horror. The point being that bosses were right to challenge their highest-paid star over a stupid Nazi analogy, which they felt tarnished their image, irrespective of existing guidelines for others.
There’s a famous old football saying that no player is bigger than the team. Lineker disproved that when he returned to our screens on Saturday.
David Knight is the long-serving former deputy editor of The Press and Journal
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