‘Pornophobia’: Lord Porn and the fall of Britain’s domestic pornography trade

ABSTRACT

This article reflects on the 50th anniversary of the Longford Report. Published at a time when other countries had legalized or were planning to liberalize laws regarding the publication and distribution of pornographic materials, the report is often viewed as a failed attempt at policymaking. Drawing on extensive ethnohistorical research conducted over a six-year period, which includes engagement with archival documents, media reportage and the published report, I show how the Longford Report inadvertently had a significant impact on Britain’s hardcore pornography trade and suggest that the activities of moral entrepreneurs like Longford can have a lasting effect on how pornography is controlled.

KEYWORDS:

• Regulation
• moral panic
• British pornography
• politics
• obscenity

Introduction

The year 2022 marked the 50th anniversary of The Longford Report’s (Anon. 1972) publication. Instigated in 1971 by the Labour politician Frank Pakenham, more widely known as Lord Longford, it came at a time when pornography increasingly became a subject of national interest and other countries had either legalized the distribution of pornography or were questioning its illegal status. Before this, the subject of pornography received little attention from the popular press. As I have shown (Carter 2023), Britain’s domestic hardcore pornography trade expanded significantly in the early 1960s, with photographs, typescripts and 8mm films being sold in the backrooms of Soho’s bookshops and through mail-order. Crucial to the growth of this economy was the Obscene Publications Act 1959. Intended as a liberalizing measure and a way to differentiate between works of artistic merit and low-brow pornographic material (Tomkinson 1982; Manchester 1986), the vagaries and inconsistencies of this legislation allowed for many loopholes (Robertson 1979). This was exploited by the enforcers of the Obscene Publications Act 1959 – the Obscene Publications Squad. Known colloquially as ‘the Dirty Squad’, this small, tight-knit unit ran their own protection racket, using a corrupt ‘licensing system’ that permitted producers and distributors of pornography to do business (Cox, Shirley, and Short 1977; Tomkinson 1982). For a monthly payment, pornographers could operate with minimal risk of arrest.

An alliance between the Obscene Publications Squad, the pornographers and London’s criminal underworld (Mort 2010, 356) enabled the growth of Soho’s bookshops from 1950 onwards. Attempts to uncover the trade were thwarted. For instance, investigative reporter Gerald Byrne discovered police involvement in Soho’s pornography business back in 1959 (see Empire News and Sunday Chronicle, 30 August and 13 September 1959), yet corrupt officers brushed his enquiries aside.¹ Prior to the 1970s, press reports on the pornography trade rarely made the front page. The People’s exposé on 8 November 1970 was therefore a significant moment. The top right of the front page read ‘Blue Film Boom Exposed’, alongside the text ‘GUILTY MEN NAMED’. Inside, two pages documented an investigation into Original Climax Films, a British label who produced hardcore 8mm films, or, to those in the trade, ‘rollers’ (Carter 2018, 2023). It tells how a light aircraft travelling from Denmark made an emergency landing in Belgium and was discovered to be holding 777 boxes bound in Christmas gift-wrap. On opening, investigators found these to not be gifts, but rollers from Original Climax Films being smuggled into Britain for distribution. The story caught the attention of The People’s reporters, prompting an ongoing investigation into Britain’s illicit pornography trade that ran every Sunday for four weeks.

Under the guidance of Assistant Editor Laurie Manifold, the reporters planned a ‘sting’, which involved a ‘Middle Eastern businessman’ requesting 3000 Original Climax Films rollers to be smuggled into Beirut (Cox, Shirley, and Short 1977, 143). Corrupt police quickly thwarted the stunt, leaving The People unable to uncover the true extent of the illicit economy. However, the coverage brought wider awareness of Britain’s pornography business and the growing transnational trade via Denmark, which had legalized all pornography in 1969 (Kutchinsky and Snare 1999). Surprisingly, Danish legislation received little interest from Britain’s popular press, perhaps out of fear of drawing attention to the extent of permissiveness in other European countries, especially with Sweden legalizing pornography in 1971 (Larsson 2016, 3). This concern is evident in a 1972 Customs and Excise file at the National Archives, which includes correspondence between Britain, Denmark, Sweden, West Germany and the Netherlands, attempting to ascertain any changes to laws and, specifically, the transnational circulation of pornographic goods: ‘Note. Mr Howard (Home Office) wishes to be kept informed on developments concerning Foreign legislation – particularly Swedish. R.A, 26/1/1972’.²

Enter ‘Lord Porn’

Amongst this growing moral panic entered Lord Longford. His initial concern for pornography did not relate to Soho’s pornography trade. According to biographer Peter Stanford (2003), it was Longford’s disapproval of two theatrical productions that spurred him into action. Longford ‘walked out of a play called America, Hurrah!’ and became even more incensed at Oh! Calcutta, leaving ‘at the interval in disgust’ (Stanford 2003, 313). The experience motivated Longford to raise concerns about pornography in the House of Lords on 21 April 1971. In preparation, Stanford tells of Longford engaging with critics of the so-called permissive society, such as Conservative MP John Gummer and campaigner Mary Whitehouse. As Jeffrey Weeks (2012, 249) notes, critics of ‘permissiveness’ always used the term in a negative sense. Longford also educated himself in pornography and became deeply concerned about the ‘potential damage that pornography could to the young’ (Stanford 2003, 314), an idea that came to dominate the debate around regulating pornography and continues to this day (Smith 2018).

Longford presented his findings to the House, calling for a government-supported enquiry into pornography and its regulation. For Stanford (2003), this was a calculated ploy by Longford, knowing full well that his fellow Labour peers opposed increased constraints on freedom of expression. Instead, Longford offered to initiate a privately funded investigation, which received some encouragement. Further backing came from the popular press, who responded positively to Longford’s concerns. The Dulverston Trust financially supported the investigation and Stanford (2003, 317) points out the hypocrisy of being backed by ‘the proceeds of a tobacco fortune’. Perhaps more problematic was the committee’s membership. Reflecting on his involvement, then Conservative MP Gyles Brandreth recalls:

When the group met for the first time it became immediately apparent that it was a gathering of the great and all-too-good and that, however much Frank Longford might trumpet the independence and open-mindedness of his hand-picked colleagues, it seemed unlikely from the outset that our report would come out in favour of pornography. (1993, 86)

Brandreth claims that his own inclusion came after making public comment about an increase in sexual violence on screen.

Celebrity participation also ensured it would draw public attention, with pop music star Cliff Richard and then celebrity Jimmy Savile lending their support. Stanford (2003, 318) notes that the popular press criticized the committee’s membership, particularly its inclusion of Longford’s ‘friends, fellow Christians and those who shared his opinions’. He also believes that Longford’s impartiality was highly questionable, setting out to prove the harmful effects of pornography, rather than conduct an objective investigation. In his introduction to the published report, Longford decries such accusations, defending the exclusion of ‘practising pornographers’ from the committee (Anon. 1972, 12). He also sets out the terms of terms of reference: ‘To see what means of tackling the problem of Pornography would command public support’ (Anon. 1972, 12). This again emphasizes the committee’s hypothesis-driven approach, making the assumption that pornography was a problem and seeking to find evidence to support this claim.

To maintain public interest, Longford wanted the report to be complied in under a year. Therefore, he formed sub-committees to carry out research into the following areas:

• the effects and control of pornography;

• broadcasting;

• cinema and theatre;

• books, magazines and newspapers;

• advertising;

• sex education;

• legal considerations and recommendations; and

• Scotland.

According to Stanford (2003), Longford moved across all of these sub-committees and was heavily involved in questioning pornographers and garnering the general public’s views. Stanford (2003, 413) also notes that Longford unsuccessfully attempted to ‘find sociological and statistical information on the damaging effects of pornography’:

… he commissioned Maurice Yaffe, a research psychologist at the Institute of Psychiatry in London, to conduct a survey into the harmful effects of pornography, hopeful that it would prove that there was at least a strong case to answer. To Longford’s deep disappointment, the resulting paper came back with no conclusions. (Stanford 2003, 414)

Perhaps the most controversial moment came when Longford decided to visit Denmark. In autumn 1971, Longford and six other committee members travelled to Copenhagen to see, first hand, the impact of liberalizing pornography laws. Brandreth (1993, 89) recalls the British press hounding them, hoping to capture ‘each close encounter of the lurid kind’, especially during a visit to two live sex shows. These are discussed in the published report: ‘the Chairman felt compelled to walkout after brief encounters in the second case with a “lady” who appeared afterwards to be a man’ (Anon. 1972, 122).

Longford’s party also met with Danish pornographers, visiting the offices of Color Climax Corporation and speaking to its co-director Jens Theander. They also interviewed sociologist Berl Kutchinsky, who discussed how his research had discovered a decline in sex crimes following legalization. For Brandreth (1993), the Denmark visit further compounded the British press’ negative coverage of the committee’s work. For instance, the Daily Mirror (26 August 1971) included a two-page spread on the committee’s Copenhagen trip, picturing Brandreth and fellow committee participant Sue Pegden walking around Vesterbro’s sex shops and witnessing the live sex show. The article is not especially critical of the committee’s work, but does wittily ridicule it, reporting on how a live sex show performer offered to whip Longford, who ‘in an aristocratic blur of speed … rose to his feet and disappeared through the exit’. For Brandreth (1993, 89), the media made Longford, or ‘Lord Porn’ as the tabloids named him, ‘a substantial figure of fun’. Because of this, Brandreth left the committee.

The proposed Obscenity Act

In September 1972, Coronet Books published the report as a 500-page, mass-market paperback. Stanford (2003) claims that it sold well and received considerable media attention, as I discuss shortly. The book’s cover featured the word ‘PORNOGRAPHY’ in bright red text, with ‘The Longford Report’ in a bottom-right circle, recalling the appearance of many publications that purported to be serious considerations of the subject, but were in fact ‘thin excuses to string together a collection of racy pictures with only a passing nod to editorial content’ (Schaefer 2005, 86). The report offered its own definition of pornography – ‘that which exploits and dehumanizes sex, so that human beings are treated as things, and women in particular as sex objects’ (Anon. 1972, 412), perhaps further evidence of the committee’s biased attitude towards the subject. Rather than follow the path taken by Denmark or Sweden in fully legalizing pornography, the Longford Report unsurprisingly made the case for greater regulation in Britain.

They recommended that the Obscene Publications Act 1959 be amended, believing its vagueness created a loophole for pornographers to thrive. The committee proposed a draft bill for what they termed the Obscenity Act 1972, replacing the Hicklin test – whether an article has the tendency to deprave and corrupt its intended audience – with the following:

For the purposes respectively of the Obscene Publications Acts 1959 and 1964 and section 2 of the Theatres Act 1968, an article or a performance of a play is obscene if its effect, taken as a whole, is to outrage contemporary standards of decency or humanity accepted by the public at large. (Anon. 1972, 383).

It also proposed the repeal of section four – the public good defence – which permitted a person convicted under sections two or three of the Act to be acquitted if the offending article can be proved to serve a public good. In the eyes of the committee, this offered pornographers another escape route, being able draw on the opinions of experts to support such claims of beneficence (see Robertson 1979, 4). Furthermore, the report also called for an ‘increase in penalties on summary of conviction’ to deter people from participating in the trade (Anon. 1972, 384), particularly those distributing hardcore. Softcore was permitted but could not be publicly displayed. Although the Obscenity Act 1972 seemingly offered little difference to the Obscene Publications Act 1959, using similarly vague and malleable language, if implemented it would have likely made it far easier to mount successful prosecutions and therefore place greater control over the pornography trade.³

According to Stanford (2003, 329–330), the general response to the report was ‘damning’ and it ‘had little impact on public policy’. Obscenity barrister Geoffrey Robertson (1979, 231) notes that the recommendations ‘aroused widespread controversy’ and the Home Secretary immediately rejected them. He also comments on the contradictory nature of the report, with Yaffe’s commissioned research concluding that ‘pornography had little effect on individual sexual habits’ and, for that reason, was relegated to the report’s appendices (Robertson 1979, 148). It is easy to assume that the Longford Report was an ineffective, vanity project that served little purpose other than drawing further public attention to Britain’s pornography trade. For Robertson (1979, 116) the report resulted in a widespread ‘pornophobia’ via Britain’s popular press. But it also had unintended consequences, perhaps beyond what Lord Longford anticipated when investigating Britain’s pornography trade.

The fall of the Dirty Squad

In an attempt to ascertain the scale and operation of the British business, Longford hired a close associate named Major Matthew Oliver as a private eye. A retired army officer and former police officer, Oliver hit the streets of Soho, speaking to those who worked in the bookshops. Oliver soon discovered the extent of the police corruption that enabled pornographers to operate relatively unhindered. Some of Oliver’s findings informed chapter two of the report, but allegations of police corruption were excluded. According to Stanford (2003), Longford encouraged Oliver to take his findings to the Sunday People, who had maintained an interest in pornography following their own investigation in November 1970, as I discussed earlier.

First, on 6 February 1972, seven months before the publication of the Longford Report, the headline of the Sunday People read ‘EXPOSING THE PORNOGRAPHY SCANDAL IN BRITAIN!’, with Longford pictured top right. Announcing themselves as being in league with Longford’s moral crusade, the paper outed Original Climax Films’ director Evan Phillips as Britain’s ‘first blue millionaire’. Second, and more damningly, on 27 February 1972 the Sunday People exposed the Obscene Publications Squad’s corrupt practices. On pages two and three, they referred to Oliver’s research:

Police officers in London, in particular some of those attached to Scotland Yard’s Obscene Publications Department, are being systematically bribed by dealers in pornography. It is this that largely explains why their businesses flourish; why immense stocks of ‘dirty’ books, magazines and films are not confiscated […] I am told that a police ‘tariff’ operates in the West End whereby certain police officers between them receive from the pornographic ‘kings’ of £1000 a week. (Sunday People, 27 February 1972, 4)

Oliver refers to an interview conducted with an unnamed mail-order operator who explained the benefit of paying the police: ‘It is far cheaper to pay the police than have the trouble and expense of going to court […] now and then the police arrange a raid on my premises, plus the occasional little prosecution, to make things look OK’ (Sunday People, 27 February 1972, 4).

The allegations made by the Sunday People caused a major stir and resulted in Robert Mark, the newly appointed Commissioner of the Metropolitan Police, initiating an investigation into police corruption (Mark 1979; Kelland 1986). Suddenly, pornographers who operated freely and had amassed vast profits found themselves vulnerable to prosecution. In response to Oliver’s findings and the Sunday People’s coverage, a coordinated crackdown on the hardcore pornography trade took place, with raids on Soho’s bookshops (see chapter eight of Kirby 2018). I argue that this stunted Britain’s hardcore trade, with imports from Denmark, Sweden, Germany and the Netherlands dominating the market (see Carter 2022). Numerous obscenity trials took place. Some pornographers evaded the law, while others, including performers, were prosecuted through combining obscenity law with common law offences to enhance their chances of a de facto guilty verdict (Carter 2022).

Conclusion

The Longford Committee may not have achieved its goal to impose greater legal controls on Britain’s pornography trade. However, its activities inadvertently had a major impact, catalyzing a long-lasting moral panic around pornography and, through the revelations of police corruption, significantly hindering domestic production. Of course, hardcore pornography remained an illicit commodity, still being sold in bookshops and increasingly through mail-order, but the police corruption that allowed the economy to flourish in the latter half of the 1960s and early 1970s had been removed. Longford’s moral crusade lived on, with Mary Whitehouse’s Festival of Light continuing the campaign against pornography. Bill Thompson (1994) suggests that Whitehouse’s moral entrepreneurship resulted in a moral panic around child pornography, leading to the introduction of the Protection of Children Act 1978. According to Julian Upton (2017, 72), this was a tactical strategy intended to discredit the Williams Committee, Britain’s first formal committee investigation into obscenity and film censorship. Like the Longford committee, the Williams Committee also saw the Obscene Publications Act 1959 as unfit for purpose. Yet, instead of reinforcing it, they recommended that the ‘existing variety of laws in this field should be scrapped and a comprehensive new statute should start afresh’ (Williams 2015, 212). They proposed a system of restriction, limiting access to hardcore pornography through licensed sex shops or cinemas where those under 18 years of age were not permitted. The newly elected Conservative government rejected their findings as ‘unacceptably liberal’ (Petley 2011, 131). Instead, the Thatcher-led Conservatives instituted further controls on the pornography trade as part of their commitment to rejecting permissiveness and reintroducing Victorian family values (Collins 2007, 27).

The Longford Report’s recommendation of criminalizing indecent displays eventually found its way into law through the Indecent Displays (Control) Act 1981. Other laws applicable to pornography that came into force around the same time were the Local Government (miscellaneous provisions) Act 1982, which enabled the licensing of sex related establishments, and the Cinematograph Amendment Act 1982 that controlled cinema clubs showing hardcore films. While Weeks (2012, 376) suggests that these laws originated from ‘Christian moral entrepreneurs’, their makings can also be traced back to the Longford Report. Britain finally permitted the sale of hardcore pornography in 2000, although it was still placed under strict constraints (Petley 2011; Carter 2023). Looking back 50 years, the Longford Report shows how the organized activities of politicians, moral entrepreneurs and the popular press can have a lasting impact on the pornography trade and its legislation.

Disclosure statement

No potential conflict of interest was reported by the author.

Notes

1 See The National Archives, UK, Director of Public Prosecutions, DPP2/5809, Virgo, Wallace Harold and others: corruption offences between 1 January 1964 and 24 October 1972.

2 The National Archives, UK, Records of the Boards of Customs, Excise, and Customs and Excise, and HM Revenue and Customs, CUST 49/5898, Export of pornography: correspondence with other European countries, 1970.

3 See Strub (2011, 168–178) for a discussion of how the introduction of a ‘new obscenity doctrine’ in 1973 briefly resulted in a ‘prosecution-friendly legal environment’ (2011, 169) in the USA.