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Warning, this episode contains scenes of a graphic sexual nature, violent acts and extreme language. It's the only reason I agreed to be involved. Sounds like my perfect Tuesday night. September 1989. Ardley, Essex. Richard Whitehouse ducks as a brick hurtles through the living room window. Trembling, the 44-year-old rises to his feet and checks his three kids for shards of broken glass. The smallest is screaming.
What the hell was that? It becomes louder and louder.
Looking out of the window, Richard realises it's circling directly over the house. What on earth? I'd better check on my parents. Richard heads next door and lets himself in with his spare key. He races down the hallway, shouting as he goes. Mum! Dad! Are you okay? Richard trails off as he reaches the sitting room and takes in the sight before him.
His mum, Mary Whitehouse, arranging her best China tea set upon a crisp white tablecloth. Her hair is fixed in a helmet of tight white curls and she's wearing her Sunday best. A smart monochrome dress with a white turtleneck sweater underneath. She pushes her trademark horn-rimmed glasses up the bridge of her nose and glances Richard's way. Not a care in the world.
Sorry dear, I should have warned you. There might be a bit of noise. The Home Secretary is popping in for tea. It's almost like a sitcom reaction to such a severe situation. Richard feels anger bubble up inside him. Tea? We've just had a brick thrown through our window. Your grandkids could have been seriously hurt. Or worse. Richard's rant is interrupted by the doorbell. Mary heads off to answer.
Moments later, police officers with machine guns and sniffer dogs swarm through the room. Richard is pushed out of the way as Mary leads them to the garden. He watches as a swathe of reporters and photographers congregate outside, shielding his eyes from the bright glare of their large portable lights. All Richard can do is return home. He finds Roz sweeping up glass. She hands him a note. This was attached to the brick.
Richard visibly pales as he reads the words scrawled on it. Die, bitch. The sound of the helicopter's engine gets louder. The noise is deafening as it lands next door. Over the low fence, Richard and Roz watch Douglas Hearn step out and greet Mary. The photographers snap away. She looks like the cat that got the cream. Roz turns to Richard, exasperated. I can't do this anymore, Richard. I'm scared. I'm scared.
kids are petrified. We have to move. Get away from all of this. Richard nods gravely. He knows she's right. After all these years, his mum's damned campaign is still ruining their lives. Just what will it take to make her stop? MUSIC
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From Wondery, I'm Alice Levine. And I'm Matt Ford. And this is British Scandal. MUSIC
Matt, I know that although you're generally a very even-tempered man, there are some things that get your goat. Do you ever let them get the better of you? Yes, and I'm one of those people that will go on social media to complain about train companies. Sure.
delays etc you're only human pizza companies delayed delays if stuff's late and i'm hungry woe betide because i will go on social media to moan about it as admirable as your pro bono work uh advocating for train travelers and those who love a dough ball is i'm not sure you've put yourself and your personal life on the line in quite the way that mary whitehouse did no that's true although i
My girlfriend does call me dope ball because of the amount of pizza I eat. So maybe it has had an effect, but I take your point, not in the profound way that it has with Mary and particularly one of her sons. Yes, we saw last episode that Mary's campaigning has had...
a major effect on her family life her family relationships are basically in tatters and then she's taken her battle to the next level and the tide is beginning to turn when she took on the gay community and it looked like her campaign days actually might be over forever but then she got an exciting invitation do you recall to have a pizza delivered on time to a train that was on time
Look, Matt, that's just the stuff of dreams. I'm talking about reality here. This is episode three. Yes, Prime Minister. Nine years earlier, winter 1980. Mary feels overwhelmed as she steps through the wide doors of Buckingham Palace Ballroom. The sheer magnificence of the place takes her breath away. Six massive crystal chandeliers hang from the ceiling. 18th century silk tapestries adorn the walls. Two gold thrones sit at the far end.
Mary takes her place in line with several other visitors, all looking equally awed. The military band strikes up the first few bars of God Save the Queen. The Sex Pistols version from an earlier series. Please don't make me sing. Mary's heart is in her mouth as Queen Elizabeth II enters the room. She's met minor royals before, but never Her Majesty. National anthem over. All she can do is wait nervously for her name to be called.
When it is, Mary isn't sure she can walk the short distance to the Queen. Her legs feel like jelly, but somehow she makes it, greeting her with a curtsy. Then Mary rises and puffs her chest out with pride as the Queen pins a CBE on the lapel of her smart knitted two-piece. At the grand age of 70, Mary has no doubt this is the greatest moment of her life.
A smart blue Mercedes speeds Mary down the Mall towards her next appointment. Tea at Downing Street with Margaret Thatcher. She is having an incredible day. Is this a red letter day? This is a money can't buy experience. She'll be doing a Formula One lap next. That's the other one you get, isn't it? Striding through the famous black door of Number 10, Mary looks at the portraits of former prime ministers that adorn the walls, taking in the leather chair in the corner where Churchill once sat.
The feeling of power is almost intoxicating. Mary thinks on what she's achieved in the last year alone. A new act to control child pornography. And now the government is working on another act to deal with the high number of unlicensed sex shops springing up all over the UK. As Mary is escorted into the drawing room, Margaret Thatcher rushes over to greet her. Congratulations, Mary. This is so well deserved.
Feeling the weight of the CBE in her pocket as they sit down for tea, Mary senses an opportunity. There'll be no better time to enlist the PM's help for her next project. I call them video nasties, Prime Minister. These films are sickeningly violent and they're available to rent in shops all over the country. I'm getting countless letters from worried parents who tell me their children's behaviour has changed after watching these films.
If we let it become the norm, I dread to think where that would leave us as a society. Thatcher nods sagely. Thank you for bringing it to my attention, Mary. I'd be happy to write a formal proposal, perhaps liaise with your office regarding the details. Mary trails off, watching Thatcher's eyes flip to something behind her. She doesn't appear to be listening. Prime Minister? Thatcher turns back, distracted.
Perhaps in a few months. There's still so much mess left by my Labour predecessors to tackle, but I'm sure we can look into these video nasties at some point. Thatcher raises her teacup to her lips. It's clear to Mary this discussion is over. For now. In the car home, looking at her shiny new CBE. She determines not to give up. She's spent today with the most powerful people in the land.
She's proved to herself and others just how big an influence she can be. She won't stop now. Two years later, August 1982, Downing Street. In the cabinet room, Margaret Thatcher stands beside her special advisor, wincing at the footage he's brought to her attention. It shows Mary Whitehouse lecturing a crowd on the dangers of video nasties, and it's quickly descending into farce.
As Mary plays a reel of the offending clips, half the audience start to whoop and cheer at the graphic sex and violence. It's obvious they've turned up not to support Mary, but to get a free show. Nice one, Mary. You've saved me 50p down the video shop. Show us your tits, Mary! Thatcher sighs and switches the TV off.
It saddens her that the woman who once commanded audiences of thousands in Trafalgar Square is now reduced to being mocked at a half-empty community centre in Blackpool, like a fading rock star forced to play smaller venues. It's obvious why. Last year, Mary brought a private prosecution against a national theatre play, claiming its content was obscene.
But the case collapsed after her own solicitor crumbled under cross-examination in court and admitted the penis he thought he saw in the play could have been a thumb. Speak for yourself, mate. The media had a field day and Mary's been ridiculed ever since. But that still likes the woman and what she stands for. She had meant what she said about backing her Video Nasties campaign when the timing was right.
And with the general election only months away, she needs to galvanise middle England voters, the kind Mary's usually so good at stirring up. Aligning ourselves with Mary on this campaign is risk-free. Video nasties are what the Tory heartland has nightmares about. And we can be in control of the narrative. If we play up the association between these videos and serious crime, the media will love it. Thatcher considers this.
We could make the legislation part of our wider law and order agenda, I suppose. Even put it in our election manifesto. The advisor nods along enthused. Exactly. And if anyone can galvanise housewives across the country to take to the streets, it's Mary Whitehouse. Thatcher is almost convinced. But a niggle of doubt remains. She has to be certain the wounded Mary she's just watched is up to the job.
Let's have her talk at the next conference. Use it as a litmus test. If Mary can win over the party, she might just be Thatcher's ticket to winning the next election. October 1982, Ardley, Essex. In her living room, Mary watches open-mouthed as the young woman on her TV screen is raped by the possessed branches of a tree.
She presses her hands together and prays to God to save her mind from pollution. Ernest pauses the tape. Should we stop, Mary? Mary shakes her head. The humiliation of the National Theatre debacle came about because she'd refused to watch the play herself. Mary won't make the same mistake twice. She knows she has to get this right if she's to win back credibility where it matters. Westminster.
That's why Mary and Ernest have spent the last two days watching rented videos with titles like Driller Killer, Texas Chainsaw Massacre, Cannibal Holocaust, and this, The Evil Dead. All good films that I watched roughly around the age of seven. And it hasn't bothered you. She presses play on the remote control and forces herself to keep watching.
Two days later, Mary watches the same shocking clip, this time from the podium in the large conference hall of the Grand Hotel Brighton. She moves her eyes around the room, taking in the appalled expressions of the Tory delegates. Chancellor Geoffrey Howe squirms uncomfortably. Employment Secretary Norman Tebbit physically recoils. When the showreel of more than 50 clips ends, the room is silent.
You have to remember this is the Tory party of 1982. It is old, it is grey, it is a particular demographic. There might have been some thrusting young Turks there, but it's even older and more establishment than it would feel now. This is bonkers. All eyes fall on Mary as she prepares to address the delegates. In the past, she's faced down rallies full of protesters. She's received numerous death threats, but this is the most scared she's ever been.
This is the largest audience she's faced for some time. Over 800 people are attending today, including every major party member and representatives from all the national news outlets. Mary takes a deep breath, clutches the trusty gold crucifix that hangs around her neck, and begins. Ladies and gentlemen, imagine how you would feel if your own children watched one of these films, then tried to copy what they'd seen. When she finishes, the applause is deafening.
But there's only one person Mary wants to pick out from the crowd: Thatcher. Spotting her, Mary sees she's clapping as hard as the others, and the expression on her face is unmistakable: respect. Now Mary has the Prime Minister on side, she's determined to use her hard-won favour to her own advantage. It's time to take on the rot from the inside. Spring 1984. All Souls Church, Portland Place, London.
Not for the first time, Mary is surrounded by TV news crews, but she still can't quite believe what they're here to film today. Margaret Thatcher in a sketch with the cast of popular sitcom Yes Prime Minister. And it's all happening because of Mary. This would be like Joe Biden in an episode of Veep or Liz Truss in an episode of The Thick of It. This is massive. It's unimaginable, isn't it?
They're at the annual award ceremony held by Mary's National Viewers and Listeners Association. Every year, a gong is awarded to a person or programme that has impressed the panel. In other words, Mary herself. Previous winners include Cliff Richard in 1972 and children's show Jim'll Fix It in 1977. That has aged badly. Very, very badly.
Mary has particularly fond memories of that day, when Saville himself said, while Mrs Whitehouse possibly wouldn't agree with my personal lifestyle, it is through organisations like hers that there is some semblance of decency. This year, with the award going to Thatcher's favourite programme, Mary asked her to present it. But the PM's gone above and beyond, writing and appearing in her own sketch. Mary throws back her head and laughs as Thatcher recites her lines.
It's the cherry on the cake of a very productive 18 months. Mary has made great strides against video nasties with both the Tories and the wider public. As a result, police have been raiding video shops across the country, seizing titles on a new banned list and imposing heavy fines on owners for renting them out. This is so censorious. It's also so labour intensive. It does feel odd at a time when crime was soaring.
to have the police spending their time on this. Later, as the press pack leaves, Thatcher clasps Mary's hand warmly. Thank you for today, Mary. It really has been quite wonderful. We must have tea at number 10 again soon. Yes, Prime Minister. Very good. Oh, we cracked up. It's droll, isn't it? It's droll. And I said to her, come on, guess. Guess what I said. Mary can't help but chuckle at her own joke. And Thatcher laughs along gamely.
Leaving the church hall later, she's not surprised to see the paps are still present. She gives them a jovial wave and goes over, happy to indulge them after her successful day. Mary, how do you feel about the fact your son Chris has been arrested for possessing cannabis? Yes, Prime Minister. Oh, sorry, what did you say? Mary's stunned into silence. Another reporter eagerly shows Mary a set of photographs taken earlier. Chris, handcuffed, being put into a police car.
Speechless, all Mary can do is push past the throng of reporters to the safety of the waiting car. On the journey back to Essex, Mary tries to process the news. She can't believe Chris could be so foolish. Their relationship has remained fractured since he moved out. And the last she heard, he'd moved into a hippie commune. But this is beyond the pale. Mary's heart sinks as she sees more photographers outside the house.
Desperate to gather her thoughts, she ignores the reporters and heads into the house. There she finds Ernest on the phone, a grave expression on his face. "It's Chris. He's being remanded in custody. He wants to speak to you." Mary instinctively reaches out to take the phone, but then she eyes the copy of the Evening Standard sitting on the table. There's a photo of Thatcher on the cover, Mary beaming in the background. News of Chris's arrest will overshadow all of today's good publicity.
She thinks about how far she's come, how standing by Chris now could undo all of that. Outside, journalists are clamouring for a statement, but Mary has already made her decision. If Chris has been weak enough to be tempted by drugs, then as far as she's concerned, this is a mess of his own making. She wants nothing to do with it, and that's exactly what she intends to tell the press. MUSIC
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A year later, May 1985, Ardley, Essex. Mary feels the familiar bile rise in the pit of her stomach as she watches the BBC's latest version of entertainment, a soap opera called EastEnders.
It's only three months into transmission and there's already been rape, attempted suicide, arson, promiscuity, homosexuality, foul language, blasphemy, lying, cheating and endless arguments. To top it all, there's even a female punk character who dabbled in prostitution called Mary. All this before 8pm on BBC One, twice a week.
Mary began campaigning because she firmly believed people's homes should be sacred, not contaminated by vile material like this. And now, more than ever, she has a very real shot of doing something about it. After Chris's arrest last year, Mary completely cast him adrift and cemented her allegiance to Thatcher. Shortly afterwards, a new act requiring all videos to be certified by an official body was passed into law.
Mary no longer has to make do with writing angry letters to the BBC duty log to complain. Now she calls the Prime Minister's office. This is incredible that she's got a hotline to one of the most powerful women in the world. This is Mary Whitehouse. I'd like to speak with the Prime Minister on a matter of the utmost urgency. Mary's delighted when minutes later she's put through to Thatcher. Mary, what can I do for you? Mary steals herself before she speaks.
What she's about to suggest is big. But then, so was the previous legislation she had a hand in pushing through. Prime Minister, no doubt you're aware of the new BBC soap opera that's receiving lots of press. Much of it very negative, I might add. Yes, what I've seen of it is rather distasteful. But then one has to expect that from the BBC, with its left-wing agenda.
I was looking at the Obscene Publications Act. I wonder, Prime Minister, if it would be worth amending it to cover broadcasting. That way it would be entirely reasonable to prosecute the likes of EastEnders producers for their attempts to corrupt the public with these shows. Mary finds herself met with silence. Her heart pounds. Her hands become clammy. EastEnders is a national institution. Has she pushed her relationship with Thatcher too far?
We do like to see ourselves as a party promoting freedom for the individual, Mary. Mary's heart sinks. But then... However, these TV executives seem to think they can get away with anything these days. It might be time to put them in their place. Mary gushes her thanks and replaces the phone. She can't quite believe it. 21 years ago, she practically had to break down doors to be heard by those in power. Now she's one of them.
If she succeeds in pushing these changes through Parliament, who knows what she could do next? The following year, summer 1986, Westminster. Michael Grade stands in the central lobby of the Commons. The 43-year-old, controller of BBC One, spends most of his time holed up at Television Centre. But he's blagged a press pass to be here.
He wants a ringside seat when Mary Whitehouse's latest attempt to censor British TV is unequivocally crushed. If Mary gets her way, producers could go to prison for corrupting the public. This issue is bigger than the BBC. It's about stopping the likes of Whitehouse from killing freedom of expression in all areas of broadcasting. College kids could be jailed for making student films. Small radio stations closed for playing records with the odd swear word. Who knows where it would end?
But Grade counts a few MPs amongst his friends. And he's been assured by them that once this bill has been debated, it will quietly die. Grade knows what the public want. What they don't want is an out-of-touch, homophobic 76-year-old telling them what to do. He's about to make his way to the public gallery when there's a frenzy of activity. Margaret Thatcher has entered the building. Grade looks on as the press rush over to her.
I have been a great supporter of Mary Whitehouse for some time. We have achieved many great things together. That's why I've come here personally to vote in support of this amendment. OK, that feels like that's going to have quite a big impact. The prime minister's getting behind it, particularly Thatcher, who at the time was master of all she surveyed. This doesn't feel good. An hour later, it's all over.
The bill is comfortably voted through to the next stage. Grade's usual swagger is replaced by a feeling of impending doom as he exits the building. His gaze is drawn to College Green, where Mary Whitehouse is animatedly chatting to reporters. This is a marvellous result for decency. We can't have these programme makers getting away with their depraved antics any longer. Grade realises he underestimated Whitehouse's influence over the Prime Minister.
A fire ignites inside him. Grade decides he must make a stand. The liberty of those working in his industry depends on it. September 1986, West London. As her private car speeds her away from Downing Street, Margaret Thatcher hears a familiar voice on the radio. Turn that up, would you? Thatcher grimaces as she listens closely to Michael Grade addressing delegates at the Edinburgh TV Festival.
What is Mary Whitehouse's vision of television in this country? I can tell you what it isn't. It isn't Shakespeare's Lear. It isn't Oliver Twist or iClaudius. And it certainly isn't Monty Python. We have to resist this bill at all costs. There's thunderous applause from Grade's audience. Thatcher can't hide her frustration. That's enough. Turn it off. The driver obeys and Thatcher recomposes, refusing to dwell.
After all, the Tories are still comfortably ahead in the polls and a huge number of party members are in support of Mary's amendment. Having backed it so publicly, Thatcher's not about to pull her support now. She dismisses Grade from her mind as she focuses on more pressing matters. This evening's Conservative Party summer ball at the Victoria and Albert Museum.
Once there, Thatcher makes her way through the throng of guests. Then she sees Rupert Murdoch holding a glass of champagne. It wouldn't be British scandal if Murdoch didn't pop up. Thatcher catches his eye and is about to walk over. But Murdoch is already turning his back and heading into a side room. She paints on a smile and glides over to the stage where party supporters and journalists are congregated.
Prime Minister, are you at all concerned about the latest poll suggesting 18 to 34-year-old voters are on the side of Michael Grade? I believe in the bill and that it has widespread support. She's about to move on when another question stops her in her tracks. Even if Murdoch's papers run the poll as a front-page spread tomorrow. She feels momentarily caught off guard and seeks out her advisor, who stares back blankly. She realises that the journalist has noticed her apprehension.
Murdoch likes to play games, but surely it can't be true. His papers have always been on side. They shape the opinions of her core support. She smiles and moves on, only to be told shortly after that Murdoch has left the venue.
This is what's really interesting about the competing forces at the heart of the Tory party at the time is on the one hand, that very small C conservative puritanical instinct about public decency and what people should and shouldn't see. On the other hand, the support of people like Rupert Murdoch and business to do whatever they like. Murdoch's newspaper at the time, The Sun, had topless women on page three. He's not going to be pro-censorship. But on the other hand...
He's about to launch Sky TV and media deregulation is something he needs the support of Margaret Thatcher for. So that might lead to him then pulling his punches on something like this. It's absolutely fascinating how many power players are involved in this and how many separate agendas. And then Whitehouse, who is sort of a lay person who's found herself in these conversations and in this decision making process.
Later that evening, back at Downing Street, Thatcher is on the phone with Murdoch. Let me assure you, Rupert, the Tory government is as committed to the free market as ever. She hears Murdoch chuckle at the other end of the line. Look, Margaret, I don't want my editors putting that polling shit on the front pages any more than you do. But I'm not one to tell them what to do. Thatcher closes her eyes, pinching the bridge of her nose.
The threat of losing support of the country's most influential newspapers hangs heavy in the air. And with an election looming, it feels like too big a risk to take. When she hangs up, Thatcher sighs deeply. She already feels weary at the thought of dealing with the inevitable backlash from Mary Whitehouse. As if on cue, her secretary gingerly enters the room. "Premier Minister, I've got Mary Whitehouse on hold for you." "Tell her I'm unavailable indefinitely."
She has to step back from Mary Whitehouse and her incendiary views. She can't afford to side with unpopular policy or people. Her political life depends on it. A month later, BBC TV Centre, London. Mary sits rigid as a post as a mass of slime hits the top of her plastic rain hat and slides down the back of her neck. Beside her, TV presenter Noel Edmonds laughs uproariously, as does the studio audience.
They've just watched Mary get gunged. This feels really out of character for Mary Whitehouse to be doing something like this. This reeks of her paying a PR company a retainer to change the opinion of her in the public's mind. She doesn't share their amusement, but Gamely stitches on a smile for her close-up, acting the good sport. This is one of the BBC's most popular entertainment shows, so she'll swallow a bit of teasing if it brings her more publicity.
Getting cleaned up in the dressing room after the recording, Mary takes a call from Ernest, who's been watching the lunchtime news at home. Bad news, Mary. Your bill's been thrown out of the Commons. Hours later, in the Downing Street Rose Garden, Mary shakes hands with Thatcher. She allows herself a moment to admire her beautiful surroundings. My Ernest would simply love your chrysanthemums, Prime Minister. I'll see that you have some to take home, Mary.
Moments later, they both sit. As Thatcher pours the tea, Mary gets down to business. It's disappointing, but I have no doubt we can resurrect the bill. Thatcher puts her cup down, her smile fading. I'm afraid we won't be attempting to revive the bill. Mary is utterly perplexed. But Thatcher's expression doesn't soften. If anything, it becomes sterner. Mary knows better than to interject. She waits for the Prime Minister to explain.
We've always agreed on a great many things, Mary. Politically and personally. When our interests have aligned, it's been most fortuitous. But I'm afraid they no longer do. But Prime Minister, without proper regulation, things will only get worse. Satellite TV alone could be the new Wild West. Thatcher cuts her off.
and is something this government has already pledged its support to. After all, we don't want to fight market forces. That would be like fighting progress. And we're a party that passionately believes in progress. And Rupert Murdoch. But Mary won't give up. She can't give up. We simply can't stop when we've come so far. Thatcher looks furious. Mary realises she's overstepped.
Thatcher's calm demeanour returns, as does the smile. She gets up. Before Mary can grasp what's happened, Thatcher is walking away. Mary's cheeks burn.
But her humiliation is quickly replaced with something akin to heartbreak, as it becomes crystal clear to her what this meeting has been: a goodbye. Mary is surplus to the Prime Minister's requirements. A flunky walks towards her, a bouquet of chrysanthemums in her arms. Robot-like, Mary accepts them, but now they feel like a consolation prize. She takes a long look at the beautifully kept garden, wondering if she'll ever get the chance to see it again.
Then Mary makes her way out, wondering exactly where it all went so very wrong.
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Home Secretary Douglas Heard. He's here to publicise the launch of a new Broadcasting Standards Council to adjudicate on complaints and report on violence, sex and bad language on TV. Since her last meeting with the Prime Minister two years ago, the relationship between Mary and Thatcher has been distant and her public profile has diminished. Fortunately, the likes of Heard still see the value in associating with her, but she knows her influence is purely cosmetic.
And once the press pack has gone, Heard looks keen to scurry off. Is that the time? First meeting with the council is in an hour. I'll make sure someone from my office lets you know how it went. Mary shakes Heard's hand and forces a rictus grin as he leaves. Then she remembers Richard's earlier visit from his adjoining house. His anger at the latest antics of her detractors. Mary feels bad. She's become desensitised to all the abuse, but she knows it's harder for her family.
She should have been more sympathetic. Picking up a Victoria sponge from the table, she heads next door. She knocks and sees Richard's living room curtain twitch, but no one comes to the door. It's obvious her son has nothing left to say to her today. Back home, Mary looks through a box of cards and letters she received to mark the recent anniversary of 25 years campaigning. She smiles at the messages from the Archbishop of Canterbury and Pope John Paul II, then darkens at the letter from Thatcher.
Like all their correspondence these days, it's signed by her personal private secretary rather than the PM herself. There's a sort of entitlement and arrogance with Mary Whitehouse. The amount of contact and time that she's had with the PM is extraordinary. It's not a given. Her ego has definitely got out of control at this point. Mary feels a surge of anger bubble up inside her. She turns to Ernest.
I should have told Douglas Heard what I really think of the government these days. They're the ones who let terrestrial TV run riots after my bill died. It's just lip service. Emboldened, she decides to call the features editor of The Times. The paper's always been open to hearing her views, and with the publicity Heard's visit will bring, Mary's confident they will run her thoughts as part of tomorrow's coverage.
But when she gets through, she's shocked to hear him say: "Sorry Mary, but attacking Sky's off-limits. It's owned by our boss. You can't expect his paper to run scathing criticism on something he's invested in." Mary slams down the phone, fuming. She feels the strength drain out of her as harsh truth dawns. The Tory government's cross-media ownership policy is effectively silencing her. She doesn't have a voice in the country's most influential newspapers anymore.
She no longer has the power to change anything. Five years later, July 1994, the Ivy, London. It's not often Mary finds herself blushing, but as the chairman of the BBC, Marmaduke Duki Hussey, rises to his feet to toast her, she's overwhelmed. Today, at the age of 84, she's finally retiring from campaigning and she feels a rush of pride as her good friend runs through her achievements.
And most recently, there was the Broadcasting Complaints Council. Ironically, the first complaint to go before it was about BBC Two's satirical sketch show, The Mary Whitehouse Experience. Sadly, it wasn't upheld. Mary bristles. The Mary Whitehouse Experience was created by four Oxbridge graduates and features the usual smut and obscene language.
Naming it after her, with no consequences to face from the organisation she helped launch, is a bitter pill to swallow. Mary never used to mind being lampooned, but the teasing increasingly bothers her these days. Mary cited ailing health as the reason for her retirement, but the truth is she can see that she's ceased to be relevant. Shows that openly mock family values, like Sky TV's The Simpsons, are massive hits. The sexual content on Channel 4 has only increased.
Two girls even kissed on its flagship soap, Brookside, six months ago. Any new regulation brought in now is like locking the stable door after the horse is bolted. But as Hussey finishes toasting her, Mary forces a smile and raises her glass along with everyone else. Mary's final appointment is afternoon tea with Tory Prime Minister John Major at number 10.
As he ushers her into the cabinet office, she's reminded just how far she's come from her humble beginnings in Birmingham, and she's gripped by a resurgence of energy. This is Mary's last chance to impart her wisdom, be a real influence on the rest of those in power, and she owes it to everyone who has followed her over the last 30 years not to waste it. Sitting down, she barely even listens as Major makes small talk.
"'I've very much enjoyed the warm weather we've been having. Norma and I don't think we'll need to go abroad this year. How about you?' Mary fixes him with a stern expression. "'Forgive me, Prime Minister, but I think there are more important matters to discuss than the weather, don't you?' Major looks gobsmacked. Mary doesn't miss a beat, moving straight on. "'I'm very worried about the influx of obscene videos coming in from Europe.' "'Yes, of course, but there seems to be no way to control them.'
Poppycock, I don't want to tell you how to do your job, but with tighter regulations, the matter could be tackled very effectively. Here's what I propose. Major is stunned into silence as Mary lectures him for the next hour. Oh boy. He's too polite. Surely he's got one of those little buzzers under the desk. Whereas, you know, PA comes in and is like, I'm so sorry, there's been a fire in the hall. I have to evacuate. Actually, just you. You can stay where you are.
In the complimentary car home, she smiles to herself. Quite sure that's an afternoon tea the PM won't forget in a hurry. But she's not done yet. When she gets back, Mary types out a follow-up letter, reminding Major of all the salient points discussed and expressing her hope these ideas will transform into legislation in time for the next Parliamentary Queen's speech. By the time she's done, it's nightfall.
Ernest has long since gone to bed, but Mary's mind is still racing. She's officially retired, but she doesn't think she'll ever really stop. Even if her sphere of influence has lessened, she has to keep fighting. Six years later, the 21st of November, 2001, Colchester, Essex. Chris Whitehouse isn't sure what to expect as Richard leads him through the nursing home to his mother's room. It's been over 15 years since they last spoke.
But now his mum only has days left to live. He's grateful for the chance to see her one last time. Chris is now 54, his mum 91. But as he enters the room and takes in the frail yet immaculately dressed woman dozing in bed, her hollowed out cheekbones freshly powdered, she seems every bit as formidable as she always did. Chris feels a rush of sadness for all he's missed, like the death of his father, who passed away in the same care home a year ago.
He looks around at the people who fill the room. His brother Paul and his kids, along with Richard's brood. Again, Chris feels a pang. His mum clearly developed good relationships with her grandkids. But Chris never gave her any. He's never married either. He hasn't had anything resembling a regular life. And for years, he blamed that on the damage she caused. But all he wants to do today is put that behind them. Chris hopes with all his heart that his mum feels the same.
He turns to Richard. Can I have some time alone with her? Richard nods and ushers everyone out. Now Chris is overwhelmed with nerves. He realizes he's never stopped being scared of his mom or wanting her approval. But he can't let fear stop him from reaching out anymore. Hello, mom. Mary slowly opens her eyes and focuses. As she takes in Chris, there's no smile, no warmth. Only the steely gaze he remembers so well from his youth.
When she speaks, it's in barely a whisper. Help me sit up, would you, Christopher? I need to say something. A wave of relief washes over Chris. She wants him here. He's welcome. Like him, she must have regrets and is glad of the chance to voice them. Maybe he'll even get the apology he always felt he deserved. He rushes over and props her up in bed. She lifts her hand and beckons him closer. Chris can't believe it. She seems to be drawing him in for a hug.
But instead, she points to the newspaper on her bedside table. The Times. Murdoch's mouthpiece. That and all those tabloids. They're all to blame. Oh, this is heartbreaking. Chris sighs, but feels obliged to humour her. For what, Mum? All of it. The state of our country. Those newspapers. The BBC. Channel 4. All those disgusting new satellite channels. This new World Wide Web.
It's going to create a perfect storm. You wait and see. Okay, she might have been right about the pernicious influence of the internet on our modern life and politics and everything else, but in this moment... Just a bit of tenderness, dare I say? Chris pulls up a chair as his mum goes into a rant, her voice rasping with the strain, almost oblivious to his presence. Age hasn't mellowed her one bit or warmed her feelings towards him.
There's no talk of love, just bile and anger. And as always, the conversation is completely one-sided. It's clear to Chris he's not going to get the closure he hoped for. There'll be no last words of affection to cling to. His memories of his mum will remain unchanged. Standing up to leave, he thinks about telling his mum his true feelings, then decides against. Since when did she ever listen anyway?
Closing the door to his mum's room, Chris walks towards his brothers. He'll take the opportunity to reconnect with them, get something out of this. As for the woman he left behind, when she's gone, he knows he will finally move on. Chris can't help wondering what it was all for. The 30 years of railing against libertarianism that made their lives so miserable. Did his mum stop swearing on TV? No. Did she stop violence? No.
Did she stop pornography? No. In fact, if Chris's own experience was anything to go by, all Mary Whitehouse really achieved was making people want all those things even more. Mary died days after Chris's visit on the 23rd of November, 2001.
It's widely accepted that Mary played a huge part in the Protection of Children Act 1978, the Indecent Displays Act 1981 and the Video Recordings Act 1984, which banned video nasties. In 2003, the Broadcasting Standards Commission, another Mary-related achievement, was integrated into Ofcom, a super regulator of all media channels. After retiring, Mary said...
I think that when we get to the year 2000 and look back on the last couple of decades, people will feel far from it being a period of liberation and progress. It would have been a thoroughly reactionary period of our history. With hardcore pornography now easily available on the internet and widely agreed to have a negative effect on how young men relate to women, and violent video games thought to incite crime, White House's fears appear to have been eerily prophetic.
Right or wrong, the spirit of Mary Whitehouse lives on.
This is the third episode in our series, The Queen of Clean. A quick note about our dialogue. In most cases, we can't know exactly what was said, but all our dramatisations are based on historical research. If you'd like to know more about this story, you can read Quite Contrary in Autobiography and Mightier Than the Sword, both by Mary Whitehouse. Ban This Filth, Letters from the Mary Whitehouse Archive by Ben Thompson. And you can watch Banned, the Mary Whitehouse story on BBC iPlayer.
I'm Alice Levine. And I'm Matt Ford. Wendy Grandeter wrote this episode. Additional writing by Alice Levine and Matt Ford. Sound design by Rich Evans. Script editing by James Magniac. British Scandal is produced by Samizdat Audio. Our associate producer is Francesca Gilardi Quadrio Corzio. Our producer is Millie Chu. The senior producer is Joe Sykes. Our executive producers are Jenny Lower Beckman, Stephanie Jens and Marshall Louis for Wondery.
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