Blair revealed to be godfather to Murdoch's daughter

Wendi Deng reveals that Blair is godfather to her nine-year-old daughter Grace.

It looks like Tony Blair is even closer to Rupert Murdoch than anyone imagined. This morning it emerged that Blair is godfather to Murdoch's nine-year-old daughter, Grace, the second youngest of his six children. The secret was divulged by Wendi Deng in an interview in the October edition of Vogue. The magazine reports that Blair, who Deng described as one of Murdoch's "closest friends", was present at the christening on the banks of the River Jordan in 2010, at the spot where Jesus is traditionally believed to have undergone the same ceremony.

The revelation goes some way to explaining why, unlike Peter Mandelson for example, Blair has refused to distance himself from Murdoch since the phone hacking scandal went global. As I previously noted, when asked about the subject at a press conference in Australia, Blair went out of his way to avoid criticising Murdoch and even claimed that the News Corp boss had taken "responsibility" for the scandal. In fact, Murdoch told MPs during the select committee hearing: "I do not accept ultimate responsibility. I hold responsible the people that I trusted to run it and the people they trusted."

The news is a political gift to the Tories, who will use it to reinforce their claim that Labour was just as guilty as them of kowtowing to Murdoch. To his credit, Ed Miliband has never sought to deny as much and has deftly distanced himself from Blair and Gordon Brown, both of whom were obsessed with wooing Murdoch and his proxies.

Blair's office has so far refused to comment on the news but it will be hard for the former prime minister to avoid the subject. The appearance of former News of the World editor Colin Myler and Tom Crone, the paper's former chief lawyer, before the media select committee means that the Murdochs will be back at the top of the news agenda.

George Eaton is political editor of the New Statesman.

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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