In the late 80s, when writing ads for The Sunday Times and other Murdoch papers, I had the pleasure of meeting the great man himself.
An election was approaching, and someone asked Murdoch if he’d fire any employee voting Labour. “No,” he replied, “but I’d pay for his psychiatric examination.”
“A man after my own heart,” I thought, thus proving that I hadn’t yet lost all my silly illusions.
A few years later Murdoch threw the entire resources of his media empire behind New Labour in general and Tony Blair in particular, thus inaugurating the worst government in British history.
Not only did Murdoch act as kingmaker, but in a way he himself became a co-ruler. For Blair’s government was the first one with no substance whatsoever, at least none that had anything to do with the good of the country.
Blair’s sole purpose was first to grab power and then to hold on to it for as long as possible, paving the way to future riches (his own, not the country’s). To serve this worthy goal, his brain, whatever little there was to begin with, had to be replaced with focus groups, telling him which way the wind of public opinion was blowing.
But the public, especially after a couple of comprehensively educated generations, doesn’t form opinions all by itself – it’s more or less told what to think by the media.
Hence the Blair-Murdoch duopoly, ascending to dictatorship or something near enough not to make a difference.
It’s the free press that curbs the dictatorial instincts of any government, and all of them have those. When the press forms a pact with the government, this critical check is removed, and both the government and the press begin acting with unrestrained spivery.
In the case of Blair’s government, this resulted in an orgy of constitutional vandalism ultimately aimed at perpetuating the power of the new elite.
In the case of Murdoch’s News International, this resulted in an orgy of unethical and often criminal investigative techniques, and we’re all still suffering from the hangover. Like all true co-dictators, Murdoch’s underlings had delusions of impunity and acted accordingly.
Tony and Rupert remained in close contact throughout Blair’s tenure, and the closeness wasn’t just professional but also personal. It was probably a marriage of convenience rather than love, but a close-knit one for as long as it lasted.
And speaking of marriages of convenience, in 1999 Murdoch married Wendi Deng, a pretty girl 37 years his junior.
By and large (and I realise there must be exceptions), when a pretty young woman marries a much older and richer man, he’d be deceiving himself if he believed she was solely driven by passion.
This point was wittily driven home when Debbie McGee, the young wife of the wealthy magician Paul Daniels, appeared on The Mrs Merton Show. The first question the sly hostess famously asked was, “So, what first attracted you to the millionaire Paul Daniels?”
Rupert Murdoch was a billionaire, not a millionaire, and the age difference between him and his wife was almost twice that between the Danielses. Considering that young Wendi had previous in marrying an older man and cuckolding him with someone closer to her own age, the newlywed Rupert shouldn’t have expected unwavering fidelity from his young bride.
Nor should he have expected loyalty from his friend Tony – the word just doesn’t appear in the modern political vocabulary. Still, when the news of the putative affair between the two was splashed all over gossip magazines last year, Murdoch claimed he was shocked.
Blair denies that he and Wendi were ever more than close friends ( I would too if I were married to a battleaxe like Cherie), but both he and his ex-friend Rupert know it’s the appearances that count.
And the appearances certainly suggested hanky-panky. The couple had been sneaking away together for secret weekends at Murdoch’s California ranch, his New York apartment, his London house, hotels and friends’ yachts.
The penny dropped when Wendi, obviously not on top of modern technology, hit a wrong button and sent to a wrong address an e-mail detailing one such weekend at Murdoch’s Carmel ranch.
Murdoch immediately flew to California to interrogate his staff, who were apparently uneasy about the whole thing. They divulged such details as Blair going into Wendi’s bedroom and shutting the door behind him, the couple hand-feeding each other at dinner and so forth.
The New York staff told similar stories, and eventually Murdoch uncovered his wife’s diary in which she praised Tony’s “good body”, his “really, really good legs” and even his “butt”, while admitting she had a “crush” on him.
The way Murdoch described the subsequent events, they had a certain staccato rhythm: “I was in Australia. When I got back, I naturally asked the staff, and it opened up. That’s the story. And then, you know, a week later I filed. As soon as I could find a lawyer.”
The couple divorced last November, much to the chagrin of their two children (Blair is godfather to the second one). A tawdry story, if hardly a unique one, but I’m sure it does have a moral there somewhere.
Murdoch clearly forgot the old saw about supping with the devil and bringing a long spoon, except that in his relationship with Blair he too was cast in a diabolical role. He got what he deserved.