Something was troubling Rupert Murdoch, his eyes were beadier and there were no laugh lines rippling his cheeks. Something was wrong, but what? I started the interview with his visit to 10 Downing Street, the day after the General Election, when he was spotted leaving through a back door.
“Rupe, you old hound, I wouldn’t have made you as a Back Door Man. Songs have been written about men like you, songs of love and infidelity, whisky and beer,” I said, as we chatted nibbling canapés and sipping champagne with strawberries in The Ivy in London.
“Chris, that meeting wasn’t a coital exchange,” Rupe retorted. “It was a business exchange to make me even more powerful and rich; to make my empire a threat to all free thinking British citizens.”
The reason for Rupe's melancholy was becoming clearer. David Cameron and Rupert Murdoch were sublime strategists eager to further their business and political interests. “How did the meeting go, Rupe? What was said?"
“Are you a journalist, Chris? You fucker! I hate journalists.”
I almost choked on a Kettle Chip. “Rupe, you’re the owner of News Corp and your dad was a journalist,” I whimpered, knees trembling as Rupe turned into Mad Max. “But I’ll tell you anyway, Chris,” he interrupted, “because one day I will be so powerful that your truth seeking soul will be delivered to me in a black suitcase by men wearing shorts. One black, one white and the story of their lives will be a non-linear narrative.”
“Err, Rupe. I think you’re confusing Pulp Fiction with real life,” I said.
“I’LL DECIDE WHAT REAL LIFE IS YOU MORON!”
Suddenly, Rupe went a shade of green and smoke started to bellow out from the boards beneath his feet. He flew in to a rage, arms flailing. “I’ll decide when my glorious take-over-the-world smoke and lights will be, not you prop men. I knew poaching you from Doctor Who would be a bad idea. Fucking BBC, they ruin it for everyone!” screamed Rupe.
“Do they follow you round, Rupe?”
“I’ve got to be tyrannical all the time and strike fear into my enemies. It’s like saying: “look, cross me and I’ll burst into flame and expose you for who you really are you spineless political classes”. It's my Son of Satan myth, you have to keep them on their toes,” said Rupe as the smoke disappeared.
I ordered a Sailor Jerry rum over ice with a squeeze of lime, something stronger. The champagne was giving me heart burn and I hate strawberries. I remembered Richard Nixon, who hated the Ivy Leaguers and the American political classes. He thought they were trying to keep him down, that there wasn’t any room for Nixon in the corridors of wealth and power. Holy shit! Maybe Nixon isn’t dead! Murdoch is Nixon!
“I can hear you Chris. I have the power of telepathy. This is how I anticipate who I am going to manipulate into furthering my empire and, in the bargain, making politicians look good for the public. I’m a hero, really."
I told Rupe we better get back to my original question before he had a stroke, so I asked him again: “what was said in the meeting with David Cameron?”
“Cameron didn’t say anything. I told him what was what. I said I am the real ruler of Britain with my tyrannical media empire. I am the one who tells the scummy electorate who to vote for. Not you, David, you Bullingdon Club bull shitter,” said Rupe, “and then I told him that in a few months time I will want to buy more shares in BSkyB, to further my tyrannical media empire, and if you stand in my way I’ll tell the world you and Boris Johnson....well, I’ll leave it to your imagination, Chris. No, I won’t. I’ll decide what Boris and Dave did with that goat.
Rupe impersonated a Dalek when ordering a packet of dry roasted nuts, bemusing the waitress, and his son James’s eyes widened like a shark smelling blood. He had been sticking stickers into his Toy Story 3 book and he ran over to his dad.
“Daddy, I hate Doctor Who, you know it gives me nightmares. When are you going to crush the BBC with your almighty fist of power?” said James.
“Soon son, very soon,” said Rupe, laugh lines appeared underneath his eyes.
“Chris, sorry....actually no I’m not. I don’t apologise. That’s what politicians do and they don’t mean it. I’m going to have to go now and crank up the hate Obama level on Fox News. Remember, Chris, your soul will be mine! START THE SMOKE!”
After wiping my eyes and a lot of strange noise, Rupe was gone. He had fled into the night like a vampire bat with his offspring in tow. The experience left me feeling odd, like I was doomed and my heart would one day be eaten by Rupe or James. I put my glass down on the bar and there, burnt into the panels, was a fiery threat: VINCE MUST DIE! This must be Dr Vince Cable, the Liberal Democrat Secretary of State for Business, who has the power to thwart more News Corp ownership. But will Vince stop Murdoch? Industry insiders, the BBC and the people of Britain are advising and petitioning Dr Cable to stop Murdoch's bid. The business and political class are the same hybrid monster, in each others pockets, self serving, and Murdoch will most likely get his wish.
Sign the petition here:
