Towards the end of the Dark Lord’s empire, his plucky opponents have to find and destroy the remaining horcruxes which give him his invincible power.
First, Coulson the Snake is eliminated, strangled by his own serpentine coils. Next, his mighty organ, the News of the World, is shut down.
Then Bellatrix “Rebekah” Lestrange is “disappeared” behind a demonic cataract of curls into exile in the dark land of Chipping Norton.
Still, never mind Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows Part 2. The other big drama everyone wanted to see was the testimony of Rupert Murdoch and his son James before a Commons select committee.
I would like to make it absolutely clear, having spoken to my lawyers, Harbottle, Bluebottle and Nobottle, that there is no connection whatsoever between Harry Potter’s arch opponent, a master wizard who creates a climate of suspicion and fear among his cowering underlings, and Rupert Murdoch.
In fact, our first glimpse of the legendary media mogul was a huge anticlimax. Good grief, could that really be him? He was shockingly old. I mean, Galapagos tortoise old.
Despite the sharp pinstripe suit and fashionably strobing, chunky tie, the octogenarian Murdoch looked less like a master of the universe than one of those Ukrainian pensioners who is dragged from obscurity to testify about a suspected past as a war criminal.
“Nope.” “Nope.” And “nope.” Those were the News Corp chairman’s first three answers to a fusillade of passionately incensed questions from Tom Watson, who knows a great deal more about the News of the World and its reporting practices than its owner seemed to.
Seated at the right hand of the father was James Murdoch, who kept stepping in to speak for his faltering parent. “We were not in full possession of the facts,” explained James.
Never mind the facts, in the opening 10 minutes Murdoch Senior seemed to be scarcely in possession of his faculties. In the interminable and embarrassing silences between question and answer, you wondered whether our star witness, with his head lolling forward, had actually nodded off.
The only sign of the force he once was came when Rupert began to bang out his answers on the pine table in front of him with flattened palms; a defiant, almost contemptuous sound that was perturbingly at odds with the words of regret and contrition coming out of his mouth.
At one point, Wendi Deng, who was seated just behind her husband, leant forward to try to stop him hitting the table. She just couldn’t help herself; Rupert’s unconscious drumbeat of defiance was clearly spoiling the carefully calibrated performance that both men were putting on to reassure their shareholders and save their business.
Wow, Wendi! Trust me, you don’t want to mess with the Chinese-born third Mrs Murdoch. Immaculate in a coral pink jacket and polka dot skirt with killer heels, Wendi is two parts care nurse to three parts Ninja.
With her lovely head cocked alertly and her laser eyes drilling into Rupert’s impertinent interrogators, you could almost read the thoughts running through her mind:
“Ha! In my country, you take the fat Scottish MP man, leave him tied to bamboo in sun for five days, cut out his liver then serve him with soft noodle!” We’ll come back to scary Ninja Wendi in a minute.
It’s well known that Crisis PR experts coach major corporate clients who are behind catastrophic oil spills or have caused a fire to rage through British public life claiming everyone in its path. The key is not to be angry or defensive, but to defuse and disarm one’s critics.
James Murdoch came across as an eager scholar of these techniques. With his buzzcut and steel-rimmed specs, he has the manner of a keen MBA student. If the plan was to say the same vague, helpfully unhelpful thing over and over again in that midatlantic drone of his until viewers gave up the will to live, he succeeded admirably.
Lesson One of Crisis PR: always welcome your critic’s complaints? Check. “That’s a very good question, Sir, I welcome the chance to answer that,” smiled James.
When the wonderfully well-informed Tory Philip Davies landed a potentially lethal blow, asking why News International had paid the legal fees of both the jailed Royal Correspondent Clive Goodman and phone hacker Glenn Mulcaire, a clearly flummoxed James gave an Olympic-class display of crisis PR: “I’d like to answer that question. It’s a good question.
"To my knowledge, er... I asked that question myself.” So did young Murdoch answer that excellent question? What do you think this is, a public inquiry?
Lesson Two of Crisis PR: show a pleasing humility so they can’t claim you’re an arrogant bastard. “This is my most humble day,” said Rupert, his eyes darting briefly to his script. There followed some folksy, touching stuff about his old dad who had left Rupe a small newspaper in his will “specifically to do good”. With that very Murdoch paper, the scandal of Gallipoli was exposed.
Brilliant! Tender memories of an inspiring father, evocation of journalism as a trusty sword wielded for the public good, Rupert personally righting the wrongs of the massacred innocents in World War One. We were just waiting to hear that he had bought a children’s hospital to name after Milly Dowler when the custard pie struck.
There was uproar in the committee room. Louise Mensch was caught mid-question, her mouth forming a horrified O of astonishment when, suddenly, came a flying, vengeful form. Pow! Kaboom! It was Ninja Wendi.
For over two hours, Mrs Murdoch had looked like she was longing to punch someone and here was a chance. Not Tom Watson, sadly, but the next best thing. A fantastic hook to the assailant’s jaw left you in no doubt that the killer Murdoch instinct has not passed to the son, but to the missus.
When the session reconvened, Rupert Murdoch read out a prepared statement, but there was no need. Father and son had already made it clear that they felt everyone’s pain while being totally ignorant of what caused it.
You were left with a sense that there were gaping holes in News International’s case. The idea that Murdoch the arch micro-manager would ring up the editor of the News of the World on a Saturday night, ask what was happening and be satisfied with the answer “Not much” is about as plausible as Lord Voldemort saying that, yes, he had met the Dementors, but only socially.
We have been here before. Back in the early Eighties, when Rupert Murdoch had his back up against the wall, he went on a charm offensive to silence his critics. Harry Evans, the great journalist and then Sunday Times editor, recalled one cynical peer observing: “The wolf has started sucking lozenges to sweeten its breath.”
See how well that wolf wears sheep’s clothing. Eighty years of age and the old devil isn’t going down without a fight.
Despite the sharp pinstripe suit and fashionably strobing, chunky tie, the octogenarian Murdoch looked less like a master of the universe than one of those Ukrainian pensioners who is dragged from obscurity to testify about a suspected past as a war criminal.
“Nope.” “Nope.” And “nope.” Those were the News Corp chairman’s first three answers to a fusillade of passionately incensed questions from Tom Watson, who knows a great deal more about the News of the World and its reporting practices than its owner seemed to.
Seated at the right hand of the father was James Murdoch, who kept stepping in to speak for his faltering parent. “We were not in full possession of the facts,” explained James.
Never mind the facts, in the opening 10 minutes Murdoch Senior seemed to be scarcely in possession of his faculties. In the interminable and embarrassing silences between question and answer, you wondered whether our star witness, with his head lolling forward, had actually nodded off.
The only sign of the force he once was came when Rupert began to bang out his answers on the pine table in front of him with flattened palms; a defiant, almost contemptuous sound that was perturbingly at odds with the words of regret and contrition coming out of his mouth.
At one point, Wendi Deng, who was seated just behind her husband, leant forward to try to stop him hitting the table. She just couldn’t help herself; Rupert’s unconscious drumbeat of defiance was clearly spoiling the carefully calibrated performance that both men were putting on to reassure their shareholders and save their business.
Wow, Wendi! Trust me, you don’t want to mess with the Chinese-born third Mrs Murdoch. Immaculate in a coral pink jacket and polka dot skirt with killer heels, Wendi is two parts care nurse to three parts Ninja.
With her lovely head cocked alertly and her laser eyes drilling into Rupert’s impertinent interrogators, you could almost read the thoughts running through her mind:
“Ha! In my country, you take the fat Scottish MP man, leave him tied to bamboo in sun for five days, cut out his liver then serve him with soft noodle!” We’ll come back to scary Ninja Wendi in a minute.
It’s well known that Crisis PR experts coach major corporate clients who are behind catastrophic oil spills or have caused a fire to rage through British public life claiming everyone in its path. The key is not to be angry or defensive, but to defuse and disarm one’s critics.
James Murdoch came across as an eager scholar of these techniques. With his buzzcut and steel-rimmed specs, he has the manner of a keen MBA student. If the plan was to say the same vague, helpfully unhelpful thing over and over again in that midatlantic drone of his until viewers gave up the will to live, he succeeded admirably.
Lesson One of Crisis PR: always welcome your critic’s complaints? Check. “That’s a very good question, Sir, I welcome the chance to answer that,” smiled James.
When the wonderfully well-informed Tory Philip Davies landed a potentially lethal blow, asking why News International had paid the legal fees of both the jailed Royal Correspondent Clive Goodman and phone hacker Glenn Mulcaire, a clearly flummoxed James gave an Olympic-class display of crisis PR: “I’d like to answer that question. It’s a good question.
"To my knowledge, er... I asked that question myself.” So did young Murdoch answer that excellent question? What do you think this is, a public inquiry?
Lesson Two of Crisis PR: show a pleasing humility so they can’t claim you’re an arrogant bastard. “This is my most humble day,” said Rupert, his eyes darting briefly to his script. There followed some folksy, touching stuff about his old dad who had left Rupe a small newspaper in his will “specifically to do good”. With that very Murdoch paper, the scandal of Gallipoli was exposed.
Brilliant! Tender memories of an inspiring father, evocation of journalism as a trusty sword wielded for the public good, Rupert personally righting the wrongs of the massacred innocents in World War One. We were just waiting to hear that he had bought a children’s hospital to name after Milly Dowler when the custard pie struck.
There was uproar in the committee room. Louise Mensch was caught mid-question, her mouth forming a horrified O of astonishment when, suddenly, came a flying, vengeful form. Pow! Kaboom! It was Ninja Wendi.
For over two hours, Mrs Murdoch had looked like she was longing to punch someone and here was a chance. Not Tom Watson, sadly, but the next best thing. A fantastic hook to the assailant’s jaw left you in no doubt that the killer Murdoch instinct has not passed to the son, but to the missus.
When the session reconvened, Rupert Murdoch read out a prepared statement, but there was no need. Father and son had already made it clear that they felt everyone’s pain while being totally ignorant of what caused it.
You were left with a sense that there were gaping holes in News International’s case. The idea that Murdoch the arch micro-manager would ring up the editor of the News of the World on a Saturday night, ask what was happening and be satisfied with the answer “Not much” is about as plausible as Lord Voldemort saying that, yes, he had met the Dementors, but only socially.
We have been here before. Back in the early Eighties, when Rupert Murdoch had his back up against the wall, he went on a charm offensive to silence his critics. Harry Evans, the great journalist and then Sunday Times editor, recalled one cynical peer observing: “The wolf has started sucking lozenges to sweeten its breath.”
See how well that wolf wears sheep’s clothing. Eighty years of age and the old devil isn’t going down without a fight.
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