As much as I’m sick of seeing his leering, lecherous face, chewing on his fat “look at me, I’m more important than you” cigar.
As much as I cringe when I see his medallion-adorned chest, shell-suit teasingly unzipped to expose it.
As much as I abhor the vile turbocharged egocentricity that made him think they “wanted it” as much as he did.
And as much as I really don’t want to say this, I’m going to.
I’m going to say there is a positive to the mire of misery and depravity and vile exploitation wreaked by Jimmy Savile.
Because, if it weren’t for the revelation of his prolific abuse of young children, paedophilia might still be where it was.
Largely not talked about. Or whispered. The abused struck dumb by shame.
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