Many people have accused me of toadying up to the Murdoch gang in the past week or so, since I’m one of the few journalists willing to go on record to defend the Dirty Digger. Actually, it’s out of conviction rather than any hope of preferment. I really do believe that, on balance, Murdoch has been a force for good in our industry. Not only has he subsidised the Times, keeping it afloat in spite of its losses, but he broke the back of the British print unions and in doing so provided the newspaper business with a new lease of life. Had he not challenged the unions’ restrictive practices, the Independent and Independent on Sunday might never have been launched and it’s doubtful the Guardian and Observer would have survived until now. The Scott Trust is struggling to contain annual losses of tens of millions of pounds as it is. If Wapping hadn’t happened, the losses would be even greater.
I don’t expect to gain from leaping to Murdoch’s defence in any way. On the contrary, I’ll suffer for it. As Paul Staines (aka Guido Fawkes) said to me at last week’s Spectator party, ‘I gave up defending anything years ago. You only get attacked for it.’ Apart from that general principle — which is surely true — I blotted my copybook with Rebekah Brooks, Matthew Freud and Elisabeth Murdoch ten years ago when I wrote a scathing piece about the Freud/Murdoch nuptials for the Evening Standard. Brooks was particularly annoyed that I included the story of what happened on Ms Murdoch’s hen night, when she and Liz and a few other boozed-up ladies were being ferried round London in a white stretch limo.
At one point, the bride-to-be noticed that they were being followed by a Ford Mondeo. Could it be that the daughter of the world’s most famous newspaper proprietor was about to be ‘papped’? God forbid!
‘Leave this to me,’ said Rebekah.
The flame-haired journalist, who was then the editor of the News of the World, called her picture desk and rattled off the Mondeo’s number plate. In less than a minute, she had the name and telephone number of the car’s owner, a notorious paparazzo. History doesn’t record who he was or how the News of the World picture desk managed to secure his personal details so quickly. But for the sake of this story, let’s call him Terry Snodgrass.
‘Mr Snodgrass, this is the editor of the News of the World,’ said Rebekah, having dialled the number. ‘I’m sitting in the limo that you’ve been following for the past half-hour. I want you to know that if you don’t stop following us, I’ll personally see to it that you never work in this town again.’
The Ford Mondeo immediately skidded to a halt, executed a U-turn and disappeared over the horizon.
My source for this story was my best friend Sean Langan. It was one of many anecdotes doing the rounds at a buffet dinner he attended where he was seated between Elisabeth Murdoch and Rebekah Wade, as she then was. Sean is a first-class documentary maker, having won numerous prizes for his films about Middle Eastern terrorists, but remembering people’s names isn’t his strong suit. Indeed, he often gets into a muddle to great comic effect. This was one such occasion.
‘I just want to say how much I admire the work of your boyfriend Grant Mitchell,’ he said to Rebekah. ‘His documentaries about gangs are riveting.’
‘Thank you,’ she said. ‘That’s very kind. But you do know his real name is Ross Kemp? He plays someone called Grant Mitchell on EastEnders.’
‘Oh God, right, yes,’ said Sean, slapping his forehead.
Five minutes later, he turned to Rebekah again. ‘So, how long have you and Grant been together?’
This time she gave him a murderous stare.
‘You mean Ross?’
‘Yes, yes, sorry, Ross.’
Then, after pudding had been served and they’d got up from the table, Sean approached her for a third time. ‘Please give my regards to Grant. Tell him I’m a huge fan.’
This was too much for the editor of the News of the World.
‘WHO IS THIS MAN?’ she screamed. ‘IS HE DOING THIS ON PURPOSE?’
Matthew Freud had to take her by the arm and gently steer her out of the room.
Toby Young is associate editor of The Spectator.
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