Mrs Murdoch's Right Hook

Just to enhance the police’s reputation more, there had to be a guy with a pie at the Murdoch Hearing yesterday.  Of course, it also had to be a fake pie, because if anyone were seen near the Murdoch Hearing with a real custard pie on his or her person, the police would’ve sussed what was going on.  They're not completely daft; they'd surely have known to draw the line at custard pies.  

I can just imagine the security.  All those policemen and policewomen milling about, telling people to strip to their underwear and checking diligently for anyone carrying knives, rifles, telescopic lenses, bugging equipment - all hand-me-downs from MI5 - and of course, custard pies.  A paper plate and an aerosol of shaving cream are an entirely different matter - and perfectly innocent looking to anyone who can't tell the difference between a proper news organisation and Lord Haw-Haw. 

When they saw the shaving cream, they'd have known straight away that the chap, who incidentally, looked like he should've stood a bit closer to the razor yesterday morning anyway, was going to sit placidly next to Rupert, listening attentively.  He'd be foaming up and innocently peering at his reflection in a paper plate whilst agreeing with every word of Rupert's profession of ignorance.  It all makes perfect sense. 

"Hear, hear Rupert".  He'd nod supportively, careful not to cut himself with the open razor (another perfectly innocuous piece of hearing goers' paraphernalia).  "You didn't get to where you are today Rupert, by knowing what your minions do for their money." 

I suppose it is a bit much to ask of a police force.   After all, they can't even spot a phone-hacking organisation when their Chief Constable and its Editor in Chief are sitting directly across the dinner table from one another, or playing footsie in the local luxury health spa.  How are they expected to protect a philanthropic 80 year old man, whose raison d'être is the unearthing of the scoundrels in our midst, from a custard pie (ok, a paper plate of shaving foam), and have to rely on the right hook of the genial old chap's Mrs for his protection. 

Yet, there's something likeable about that woman - although I know absolutely nothing about her, other than the efficiency of her right hook.  However, I bet that, if ever his empire disintegrates and all his erstwhile fawning acolytes have deserted him and are in the process of sullying his name further (if that were possible) and prising as much of his ill-gotten gains from his grasp, she'll still be there ready to swing that right hook in the direction of any potential assailant. 

Mrs Murdoch didn't wait for the police to jump in and do the job they were there to do; "we, the people', and noticeably our representatives - did.  For many decades, we (the men at least) ogled at the boobs on page 3, whilst complacently ignoring the future political and economic ramifications of his odious type of ideology.  We howled in outrage when his papers said we should.  We believed what we were told to believe and did what we were told to do, and now we haven't a pot-to-p*ss-in.  We have no means of production and neither have our successors.  At least Rupert has a guardian angel with a right hook - what do we have now that the music has stopped?