STALWART members of the Mary Whitehouse brigade are cock-a-hoop. Readers of the Daily Mail – which has spearheaded the campaign to "clean up" the BBC – feel vindicated. But for those of us who inhabit the real world, there is something faintly ab
surd about Auntie's decision to tone down the swearing and sexual content of its output between 9pm and 10pm.
In a sense you can't blame the Beeb. For eight months now – ever since the Jonathan Ross and Russell Brand scandal broke – there have been calls for it to wash its mouth out with soap. And now the largest piece of audience research ever carried out has revealed that it's not only old codgers and neurotic mothers who are concerned.
"I swear when I'm in the pub with my mates, but I'd never swear in front of my mum. I'd hate it if the BBC just gave up on the idea that you don't swear in certain situations," said one man in his twenties, proving that you don't have to be a prude to endorse a degree of self-restraint.
But what is the point of the BBC appeasing its critics when at any time of any day, scenes of a violent and sexual nature can be viewed by anyone with internet access?
We are in a new era of Sky+, of iPlayer, of YouTube, when programmes can be accessed at any time of the day; and where anyone with a mobile phone can film explicit scenes and put them online for the delectation of the public. In such a climate, the concept of a watershed is an anachronism and the debate over censorship moribund. Newspapers which continue to agonise over questions such as whether or not to publish photographs of celebrities' children may preserve their own integrity, and keep themselves on the right side of the Press Complaints Commission, but they no longer have power to prevent their wider dissemination.
Nowhere has the disparity between the traditional media's ethical nitpicking and the internet's moral anarchy been more clearly highlighted than in the way in which the Iranian uprising – and, in particular, the disturbing footage showing the death of protester Neda Agha Soltan – has been handled.
While broadcasters, both here and in the US, were debating whether or not the graphic clip should be shown, and if so, if the student's face should be pixellated, it was already receiving thousands of hits on YouTube. As a result, Neda has become the human face of the revolt, a symbol of the tyranny of the current regime and a rallying point for Iranian dissidents – who have been using it to mobilise fresh demonstrations in Tehran – and western sympathisers alike.
There are many who say this is a good thing. To them TV's attitude towards violence has always been topsy-turvy, with broadcasters such as the BBC happy to serve up images of rape and murder in fictional programmes, where their purpose is to entertain, but squeamish about showing real-life violence, which might hammer home the human cost of conflict. There is also a groundswell of opinion which insists the internet has a democratising effect. Its role as a purveyor of pornography, they argue, is balanced by its ability to make current affairs accessible to a large number of people; to engage an otherwise apathetic audience in the political process.
And I can see there's something to be said for freeing up information. Why should the establishment decide what images can or can't be seen or what slant should be taken on a particular event? On the other hand what does watching the death of Neda on YouTube actually tell you about the political situation in Iran?
Even if you leave aside the possibility that some of those who clicked on the clip may have been titillated rather than moved, it seems unenlightening. Unsourced (the footage is said to have been captured by a doctor at the scene, but what proof is there?) and viewed in isolation, the images fail to answer even the most basic questions: Who killed Neda? What impact will her death have? To what extent is her death being used as propaganda?
Those who want to engage with the tragedy on an intellectual rather than emotional level will have to go through the traditional, more demanding process of reading a range of in-depth articles, or watching a documentary or two.
The majority, however, will not bother. They may post a message that says something inane like: "You did not deserve to die." They may forward it to their friends; they may wear green and adopt the uprising as their cause, until something else – like the beating of a Tibetan monk – catches their eye and then Neda will be cast aside.
That is the problem with the so-called democratisation of the internet. Its great asset – the way information circulates freely, and without middle-class moralising – is also its great downfall. In a world where no external value judgments are imposed, the death of a young student carries the same weight as a pair of breakdancing penguins; the rant of an uninformed blogger the same weight as the opinions of a university professor. In a world where ordinary people – who once held the paparazzi in contempt – have little compunction about secretly capturing each other's most intimate moments and pinging them across the globe, there is no longer such thing as the right to personal privacy.
In the face of all this, worrying about whether the panellists on Mock The Week are a little too sweary or Jonathan Ross a little too lewd seems almost self-indulgent. And even if it weren't, extending the BBC watershed to 10pm would have as much impact on the moral fabric of society as a pep talk from Ann Widdecombe.
The full article contains 987 words and appears in Scotland On Sunday newspaper.
