Hands up, who here is surprised that Edward Heath has been named as a kiddy fiddler? Boo hiss to him, and all. Of course, this raises the question–he very well might have been, but why bother exposing him now?* Ken Clarke’s in the news for for accusations of approximately the same sort of thing, and he’s inconveniently alive and walking, so that might be one reason. However, there’s another reason I can think of, and while it may not be the primary reason, maybe just a convenient side effect, it is a subject that’s near and dear to every Tory’s heart–property.
Specifically, Edward Heath’s house. Unlike Gary Glitter, with his haunts in the far East, and Jimmy Savile, who seems to have literally lived in Hell House (it had black walls! for fuck’s sake!), Heath lived in a pretty corner of England–a listed Georgian house near Salisbury Cathedral. The house was originally cathedral property and Heath only held the lease, but through some dodgy dealing, he bought the house outright. However, as we all know, Heath had no close family, so after he died, that should have been an end to it.
But Heath left behind a substantial amount of money, and willed most of it towards keeping the house as a shrine to his own achievements. It would be kept as it was when he lived there, and people would trot through and admire his achievements.
Understandably, visitors weren’t beating down the doors to share Heath’s vision. After a series of closures and reopenings, it seemed like the shrine was about to put up the shutters. The property would finally be sold, all the memorabilia cleared out, and the house could revert to its normal function as a residence. However, some last-minute funders stepped in and by late 2013, the museum’s supporters finally had managed to establish the house as a permanent tourist attraction.
Imagine the feelings of the people of the cathedral close. First, Ted had swindled the church out of its rightful due, and now his ghost would squat among them permanently. Forever. Until the last syllable of recorded time.
And imagine the feelings of well-heeled denizens of the property ladder, knowing that that particular attractive rung was off limits, dedicated to storing the personal effects of Ted Heath, of all people. When there could be a family there… your family. (Granted, your family if your family had millions, but still.) If only there was a way to get that house back where it belonged…
But what a reverse! Now the innocuous spot where elderly day-trippers could look at Sir Edward’s piano and yacht paintings has turned into a den of pure kiddy-fiddling evil. Which is sad for all those abused kids, but is the exposure really such a tragedy from the point of view of the aspiring property owner? I suppose they’ll have to break up the contents and sell the house now, to protect the property from vandalism if nothing else. Whatta shame… Don’t run to the estate agent’s too quickly, dears. At least buy some sage first!
* If you’ve read this far, have a reward–this is probably and hopefully the most embarrassing thing I’ll ever admit on this blog, but I’ve read a biography of Edward Heath, and this Mirror rape story accusing Heath of rape doesn’t completely add up. The accuser says that the rape occurred in 1961, in a fancy flat full of yachting-related knickknacks. In 1961, Heath didn’t live anywhere fancy, and he didn’t start sailing until later in the 1960s (Private Eye suggested Heath’s yacht was a public relations exercise to get people to warm to the new, waxen Tory leader). So, unless Heath had a secret early passion for yachts along with his secret passion for kids, and he was borrowing his rich friends’ flats to pick up tricks, the dates are off.
I mean, I don’t want to trash a victim, because memory can be hazy, and it still could all be true. In which case, fuck that dude, once for being a kid rapist and once again for using some presumably unwitting friends’ flat as his pretend home/curio case/junior rape center. He broke ALL THE RULES, and not in a bodacious way, either.