It is Spring 1977.  I am a callow reporter newly transferred from radio to television.  An early assignment.  “Apparently, there’s going to be a gathering of 20,000 Muslims in a field just outside Bradford for a religious weekend.  It should be quite a spectacle and BBC TV news want a report for the Six O’clock on Saturday.  You’re it.”   With my News Editor’s words echoing in my ears, I gather up my allotted film crew and head off for Bradford.

There they were.  Thousands of white clad Muslims (strictly men only) milling about and listening to speeches.   My rudimentary Urdu (learned at school in Pakistan) told me the Mullahs were encouraging those present to revere God and improve their religious ways.

My cameraman hoisted his weighty Arriflex to his shoulder. With sound man in tow we headed towards the field to get a closer look.  There was a significant police presence.  As we were about to go through the gate, a mob of about 30 young men advanced towards us shouting menacingly. 

“The Prophet, Peace be Upon Him, has said no good Muslim should allow any likeness to be made of him.  We forbid you to take pictures.”

I knew from my religious studies classes in Pakistan that, technically, he was correct.   Muhammad had made this stricture to combat the tendency in the 7th century towards idolatry; this is why you see no pictures but only calligraphy decorating mosques. The Islamic side of my family are Sunnis, and Sufi Sunnis to boot. Theirs is a rather more relaxed sect and you would see photos  adorning  the drawing rooms of my family’s houses.  However, this crowd weren’t looking for a theological discussion.

A chief inspector intervened, I thought to defend journalism.

“Put your camera away.”

“But I am on the Queen’s highway and I’m from the BBC. It’s my right to film what I like.”  Amazing how priggish a young wet-behind-the-ears reporter can be.

“I am telling you to put your camera away, or I will arrest you for conduct likely to cause a breach of the peace.”

“But you should be defending my journalistic rights.”

“Look son, there are twenty thousand of them.  I have fifty coppers and there are just three of you.  Put your camera away.”

Thus, I learned what “policing by consent” means.  We put the camera away, retreated to a nearby hill and filmed on a long lens.  The story was still about a religious gathering, but it must have been one of the earliest TV reports to cover “culture clash,” only we didn’t call it that in those days.

Fast forward four decades and intimidation seems to rule even more strongly, whether it’s the Speaker allegedly being threatened with deselection during last week’s Gaza vote shambles or pro-Palestinian supporters turning up outside the houses of MPs.  In London, the Met, still too busy rooting out bad apples, like the Chief Inspector on that Bradford field, seems to interpret “consent” as being that of those that can shout the loudest.

Intimidated MPs wring their hands.  Some resign, citing the pressure of social media threats.  No doubt those who are left are thinking about bringing in new laws when what’s really needed is enforcement of the existing laws.  The police are not solely culpable.  Whatever your thoughts on slavery, and I hope we are on the same page in condemning it, the toppling of Colston’s statue in Bristol was, at least to the man on the Clapham omnibus, clearly criminal damage.  However, guided by the judge, the jury acquitted those accused - the so-called Colston Four.

Swiftly, the Colston name was eradicated from buildings endowed from the profits of this 18th century slaver.  Were those decisions bowing to the zeitgeist or intimidated by the thought of what might be unleashed by those now apparently untrammelled by the laws of property?  Intimidation appears to be winning.