What does it say about us Guardian readers that the death of the actor Diane Keaton is the fourth most viewed article on its website, behind the murder of the sick paedophile and attempted baby rapist Ian Watkins? I have no idea but it probably says nothing about us at all. I was very sad to learn about the death of Ms Keaton, who was surely one of the greatest movie actors in history but strangely emotion-free at the death of Watkins. Why was I emotion-free? I have no idea but I have a few ideas.
Watkins was the singer with a band called the Lost Prophets, who never really crossed my path, at least before his convictions. Frankly, I was too disgusted to seek our his music once the full depths of his depravity has been exposed. His death is of no consequence to my own life. I admit I was close to opening this blog with a reference to ‘the welcome death’ or ‘the welcome murder’ of Watkins, because let’s face it someone like him doesn’t deserve anything, including life. And yet, I wondered about the identities of those who allegedly slit his throat. You might argue that actually they had provided a useful public service, but the fact that they were also doing time in Wakefield prison suggests they might not have been angels themselves.
We can all agree, though, that Ian Watkins represented the absolute dregs of humanity and I will have been among the first to say, when he was first convicted and then imprisoned, that I hoped every single day thereafter he will have been fearing for his own safety, wondering whether one day his fellow criminals would try to kill him. A part of me wishes he had not been killed in prison and instead lived a horribly miserable long life.
How would I have felt had I been a prison officer or paramedic, charged with trying to keep Watkins alive after the attack, perhaps trying to stem the bleeding, encouraging him to stay awake? Perhaps, professionalism would have taken over, everything you have been taught about saving lives and switching off from the blood and gore in front of you? He could have been anyone, except that he was someone who plumbed the depths of humanity and then some.
People like Ian Watkins raise, at least to me, the issue of Heaven and Hell. Now, as you may have guessed if you have ever read this blog, I don’t do God. Never have, never will, but at times like these I can’t help wishing there was a hell for him to go to. The nearest thing to hell on earth would be best for Watkins and that would surely be a long time of fear, indeed terror, within those four walls, denied freedom forever. Some might argue, and I have some sympathy with the argument, that his murder has spared him a long life of misery but in truth I have no sympathy with him at all. It is hard to avoid the conclusion that he deserved everything that came to him.
I have dwelt too long on this piece of human filth and provides an explanation of why the death of Ian Watkins has garnered more public interest than that of Diane Keaton. In the end, though, Ms Keaton left a forever legacy as a great actor and, from what I can gather, an even greater person.
It’s sadly the way of the world that bad news attracts more front page views than good news. And the modern day media dwells on and indeed encourages hatred rather than love. That matters, too. Sometime soon, I shall revisit Ms Keaton’s best work and there is lots of it and I’ll start with the magnificent Annie Hall, as good a film that’s ever been made. There’s quite some contrast between their separate lives, isn’t there, and I’ll remember Diane Keaton’s work for as long as I live. Watkins has been dead to me for a long time now. That he is now literally dead changes nothing.
