In 1997, he was honored with a lifetime achievement award by the Music Industry Trust. In a letter read out at the ceremony, Tony Blair acknowledged King’s “important contribution to one of this country’s great success stories.”
A galaxy of stars—Peter Gabriel, Ozzy Osbourne, Simon Bates—came out to praise him, although no galaxy of stars is willing to do the same now that he’s been accused of pedophilia.
Nonetheless, he seems to delight in being the man we love to hate (theatrically speaking; he is mortified when he thinks his arresting officers really do hate him).
“I love to infuriate,” Jonathan told me over coffee in his office, shortly before the trial began. “I deliberately set out to irritate.”
“Of course,” I said, “should you be convicted, people will hate you in a very different way. This is not a good climate in which to be accused of pedophilia.”
“Well,” he said with a shrug, “it’s not as though I’m sitting here thinking, ‘Oh, I’m such a nice person. Will everybody please be nice to me.’ I know I tend to provoke extreme reactions, so I’m not at all surprised when they arrive.”
“So you see what’s happening now as a continuation of your public image?” I asked him.
“Absolutely,” said Jonathan. “And it is so. And it would be absurd not to regard it as so.”
“But there’s a difference between bringing out a novelty record that nobody likes and being accused of buggering an underage boy,” I said.
There was silence. “Let’s not discuss it further,” he said.
September 11, 2001, day two of the trial, and things are already looking hopeless for him. The first victim—now a painter and decorator from the suburbs of North London—takes the stand. I’ll call him David. Jonathan approached David in Leicester Square when David was fourteen or fifteen. Although David had no idea who Jonathan was, Jonathan quickly told him he was famous.
“It was exciting,” says David.
Jonathan gave David the questionnaire, the one that ranked boys’ hobbies in order of preference. He filled it out. Jonathan invited him back to his house and asked him if he and his friends masturbated together. Jonathan showed him pornographic movies on a cine projector.
“We were talking about masturbation,” says David. “He told me to relax. He undid my trousers. He tried to masturbate me, which didn’t arouse me at all. He told me to do it myself, which I proceeded to do. I felt very awkward.”
David returned to King’s house on three occasions. Similar indecent assaults occurred each time. Later, Jonathan wrote David a series of letters.
“He made it sound like I would be famous,” says David.
The prosecuting barrister asks David to read one of these letters to the jury.
“‘Maybe you will go on to be a megastar. Now I am in New York. I will call you when I next hit town. In the meantime, keep tuning in on Wednesday at 9pm for Entertainment USA, the greatest TV show in the world.’”
David says that Jonathan King has emotionally scarred him for life. He says he cannot hold children. He says it makes him scared and uncomfortable to hold and play with his girlfriend’s little boy.
After lunch, Ron Thwaites, Jonathan’s defense barrister, begins his cross-examination of David. His tone is breathtakingly abrasive.
“We are going back sixteen years because you decided not to make the complaint until nine months ago,” he says. “You’re not asking for sympathy for that, are you?”
“I was the one that was assaulted,” David replies, shakily.
“Do you think it’s easy for a man to be accused of a crime after twenty years,” says Thwaites. And then: “Are you interested in money?”
“I am nervous up here,” says David. “You are putting me under pressure. I was sexually assaulted by that man over there.”
“You must have been fairly grown up to go to London on your own,” says Ron Thwaites. “You can’t have been a boy in short trousers, mewling for your mother.”
And so on. We are unaware that, during this cross-examination, New York and Washington, D.C., are under attack.
That night, I receive an e-mail from Jonathan: “Makes whether or not I put my hand on a teenager’s knee 15 years ago seem rather trivial, doesn’t it? Are you dropping KING for the World Trade Center? Boo hoo! What do you think of the jury? A lot of ethnic variation which, I think, is probably a good thing. Not Ron’s best day, but not terminal! See you tomorrow. Love JK.”
A week later, Jonathan posts a message on his website, kingofhits.com: “Well, it’s been a fascinating couple of weeks. Not many people are fortunate to discover first hand exactly what Oscar Wilde went through! This week is the crucial one for me—keep praying. And just one oblique thought . . . when you look at the teenagers from 15 years ago who grew up to be terrorists who killed thousands in America, wonder what changed them into mass murderers. Then wonder what turns other decent teenagers into mass liars.”
King’s demeanor remains cheerful throughout our time together. “I am living in clouds and happy flowers and love and beauty,” he tells me one day. “And if I go to prison, I shall enjoy myself.”
Even on the one occasion that Jonathan all but confesses to me—“I’m sure you’ve got skeletons in your own closet, Jon. ‘Honest, guv! I thought she was sixteen!’”—he says it with a spirited laugh.
When the Guardian’s photographer takes Jonathan’s portrait early one morning before a day in court, he is frustrated to report that during almost every shot Jonathan stuck his thumbs up—as if he was doing a Radio 1 publicity session—or grinned his famous, funny, lopsided grin into the camera. This was not the image anyone wanted. We were hoping for something more revealing, sadder, perhaps, or even something that said “child sex,” or “guilty.” But Jonathan wouldn’t oblige.
One day during the trial, I hear a story about Larry Parnes, Britain’s first pop mogul. He discovered Tommy Steele and Marty Wilde. Like many of the great British impresarios back then, he based his business judgments on his sexual tastes.
“If I am attracted to Tommy Steele,” he would tell his associates, “teenage girls will be too.”
Parnes’s West End flat was often full of teenage boys hoping to be chosen as his next stars. If he liked the look of them, he’d give them a clean white T-shirt. Once he’d had sex with them, he’d make them take off the white T-shirt and put on a black one.
Wham!’s manager Simon Napier-Bell—who was once invited by Parnes to put on a white T-shirt—has said that the great difference between the British and American pop industries is this: The American impresarios are traditionally driven by money, while their British counterparts were historically driven by gay sex, usually with younger boys—and that British pop was conceived as a canvas upon which older gay Svengalis could paint their sexual fantasies, knowing their tastes would be shared by the teenage girls who bought the records.
Deniz Corday is desperately worried that the Walton Hop, his life’s work, is about to become famous for something terrible.
“Jonathan didn’t want me to talk to you,” he says, “but I must defend the Hop with all my life.”
Deniz is immensely proud of the Hop. There is Hop memorabilia all over his flat, including a poster from a Brooklands Museum exhibition, “The Happy Hop Years 1958–1990. An Exhibition About Britain’s First Disco: The Walton Hop.”
“Every day, someone comes up to me in the supermarket,” says Deniz, “and says, ‘Thank you, Deniz, for making my childhood special.’ Some say the Hop was the first disco in Great Britain. It was terribly influential. Oh dear . . .” Deniz sighs. “This kind of thing can happen in any disco. The manager can’t control everything.”
Deniz says he knows it looks bad. Yes, an unusually large number of convicted celebrity pedophiles used to hang around backstage at the Walton Hop. But, he says, they weren’t there to pick up boys. They were there to conduct market research.