Wow. As I’m writing this, Wendi Deng is scanning the House of Commons committee room, searching for any additional assailants, as her husband and son-in-law are testifying before the Culture, Media and Sport select committee. Ten minutes earlier, she launched herself like a missile at a pie-throwing protestor, delivering a stinging blow to his face. It was something to behold: the tiger wife in full battle cry. Moments later, dollops of shaving foam were dripping down the hapless protestor’s face. Not just a loyal and devoted wife, but her family’s head of security as well.
The stupidity of Jonnie Marbles, the anti-cuts protestor in question, is staggering. Didn’t he realise that his stunt threatened to upstage any damaging admissions forced out of the Murdochs by the committee? Not only that, but he achieved what no one thought possible in the midst of this scandal: he transformed a member of the Murdoch clan into a heroine. It’s the sort of brilliant PR wheeze dreamt up by Matthew Freud, Elisabeth Murdoch’s husband, to distract attention from a story likely to embarrass one of his clients. Marbles — a leftie, no less — managed to do more for the Murdochs in five seconds than any number of highly paid advisors could manage in a year. When he gets out of jail they should put him on the payroll.
But how about that tiger wife? This time next week, thousands of Young Republicans will have taken down their posters of Ann Coulter and replaced them with posters of Wendi Deng. She’ll become the Farrah Fawcett of her generation: Rupert’s Angel. What man wouldn’t want her in his corner? Her balletic leap — graceful as well as fierce — reminded me of one of the aerial combat sequences in Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon. Had there been more than one protestor present, I’ve no doubt she would have unleashed her fists of fury, flipping and twirling until not a man was left standing.
My own wife is something of a tiger herself and I don’t just mean when it comes to protecting her cubs. Caroline has never had cause to thump anyone trying to attack me — though I’m sure she wouldn’t hesitate, given her boxing training. But she is ferocious when it comes to defending me in conversation. I’ve often been told that the difference between Brits and Yanks is that Brits are rude to your face but loyal behind your back, whereas Yanks are polite to your face but disloyal the moment your back is turned. In fact, most Brits are rude to your face and rude behind your back. But Caroline conforms to the stereotype.
In private, she is breathtakingly rude. ‘You look like a middle-aged geography teacher,’ she said to me the other day when I invited her to admire my outfit. (Jeans, white shirt, blazer. Who knew?) But in public, if anyone breathes a word of criticism, she immediately goes on the attack. ‘Yeah, he’s clearly a complete s***, having spent 60 hours a week for the last two years setting up a free school which our own children might not even get into and for which he’s been paid precisely nothing. What do you do for a living? Lawyer? Investment banker?’ It’s almost like having my own personal Alastair Campbell by my side at all times. Only prettier. Much prettier.
I suspect Wendi Deng is like this, too. I can imagine her berating Murdoch in private, telling him to use his eyes when he asks where the bread-knife is, standing over him as he attempts to change a nappy and accusing him of ‘selective deafness’ when he claims to have forgotten about parents’ evening. But woe betide the person who dares to criticise her husband in public. If she was unfortunate enough to witness Gordon Brown’s grandstanding in the House of Commons last week, I expect she hurled Chinese expletives at the television set for the duration.
I’m a fan of Rupert Murdoch so may be guilty of bias, but I think there was something endearing about the display of family unity on Tuesday. Watching James trying to interject himself as a human shield during Tom Watson’s cross-examination of his father — ‘Can I answer that?’ — was rather touching. To some viewers, they will have looked like a bunch of ruthless robber barons hanging together lest they hang separately. But to me, they looked like a close-knit family doing their best to protect each other in the face of a vicious onslaught.
Toby Young is associate editor of The Spectator.
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