Political sketch: Laying the Sun King to rest

Rupert takes away all of the blame - none of the responsibility.

 

In the end the Sun King just rambled on as might befit someone in his eighty-first year, and thus Rupert Murdoch was finally laid to rest on the Strand - fittingly at the end of Fleet Street where it all began 45 years ago. 

On the journey we discovered the man with his hand around the throats of all our political leaders believed that if you scratch my back I'll scratch yours - but not when it comes to our political leaders. He did them no favours and they did him none. 

We discovered he had not really liked the News of the World, the newspaper which brought his empire to crisis, and he wished he had closed it years ago. 

We discovered he took all the blame for what has gone wrong but none of the responsibility. 

We discovered he was seriously distressed by what had happened and some people were to blame but clearly not those close to him. 

As dramatic events go, the (probably) final public appearance of the media mogul who has so dominated parts of British public life was almost embarrassing.

At times, he was almost Alex Ferguson in his replies to charges that he had to accept his part in the scandal tied to his newspapers, but as soon as he flared he failed back into the gaps of someone who has remembered the answer but not the question. 

We learned it has cost him hundreds of millions of dollars and it was a serious blot on his reputation. 

We learned that son James might have been too inexperienced for the job that an editor of the Sun said he had been drunk all the time he had the job - but nobody noticed and that the Sun was, and is, his pride and joy. What the Sun says is what Rupert thinks. Or maybe the other way round. 

We learned too that if he had not taken the print unions, some of the papers doing him down today would not have been able to afford it. 

Sadly, or deservedly, he was asked by Lord Leveson to sum up the future of newspapers and he lost his way - maybe just like them. 

His many enemies, well earned and well deserved, will have to settle for the demise of the News of the Screws and the evisceration of son James. But they have also been present for the humbling of Rupert Murdoch - and that should be remembered. 

 

Peter McHugh is the former Director of Programmes at GMTV and Chief Executive Officer of Quiddity Productions

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A swimming pool and a bleeding toe put my medical competency in doubt

Doctors are used to contending with Google. Sometimes the search engine wins. 

The brutal heatwave affecting southern Europe this summer has become known among locals as “Lucifer”. Having just returned from Italy, I fully understand the nickname. An early excursion caused the beginnings of sunstroke, so we abandoned plans to explore the cultural heritage of the Amalfi region and strayed no further than five metres from the hotel pool for the rest of the week.

The children were delighted, particularly my 12-year-old stepdaughter, Gracie, who proceeded to spend hours at a time playing in the water. Towelling herself after one long session, she noticed something odd.

“What’s happened there?” she asked, holding her foot aloft in front of my face.

I inspected the proffered appendage: on the underside of her big toe was an oblong area of glistening red flesh that looked like a chunk of raw steak.

“Did you injure it?”

She shook her head. “It doesn’t hurt at all.”

I shrugged and said she must have grazed it. She wasn’t convinced, pointing out that she would remember if she had done that. She has great faith in plasters, though, and once it was dressed she forgot all about it. I dismissed it, too, assuming it was one of those things.

By the end of the next day, the pulp on the underside of all of her toes looked the same. As the doctor in the family, I felt under some pressure to come up with an explanation. I made up something about burns from the hot paving slabs around the pool. Gracie didn’t say as much, but her look suggested a dawning scepticism over my claims to hold a medical degree.

The next day, Gracie and her new-found holiday playmate, Eve, abruptly terminated a marathon piggy-in-the-middle session in the pool with Eve’s dad. “Our feet are bleeding,” they announced, somewhat incredulously. Sure enough, bright-red blood was flowing, apparently painlessly, from the bottoms of their big toes.

Doctors are used to contending with Google. Often, what patients discover on the internet causes them undue alarm, and our role is to provide context and reassurance. But not infrequently, people come across information that outstrips our knowledge. On my return from our room with fresh supplies of plasters, my wife looked up from her sun lounger with an air of quiet amusement.

“It’s called ‘pool toe’,” she said, handing me her iPhone. The page she had tracked down described the girls’ situation exactly: friction burns, most commonly seen in children, caused by repetitive hopping about on the abrasive floors of swimming pools. Doctors practising in hot countries must see it all the time. I doubt it presents often to British GPs.

I remained puzzled about the lack of pain. The injuries looked bad, but neither Gracie nor Eve was particularly bothered. Here the internet drew a blank, but I suspect it has to do with the “pruning” of our skin that we’re all familiar with after a soak in the bath. This only occurs over the pulps of our fingers and toes. It was once thought to be caused by water diffusing into skin cells, making them swell, but the truth is far more fascinating.

The wrinkling is an active process, triggered by immersion, in which the blood supply to the pulp regions is switched off, causing the skin there to shrink and pucker. This creates the biological equivalent of tyre treads on our fingers and toes and markedly improves our grip – of great evolutionary advantage when grasping slippery fish in a river, or if trying to maintain balance on slick wet rocks.

The flip side of this is much greater friction, leading to abrasion of the skin through repeated micro-trauma. And the lack of blood flow causes nerves to shut down, depriving us of the pain that would otherwise alert us to the ongoing tissue damage. An adaptation that helped our ancestors hunt in rivers proves considerably less use on a modern summer holiday.

I may not have seen much of the local heritage, but the trip to Italy taught me something new all the same. 

This article first appeared in the 17 August 2017 issue of the New Statesman, Trump goes nuclear