Rupert Murdoch and Alex Salmond: an old friendship

What lies behind Murdoch's praise of the SNP leader on Twitter.

Since his arrival in the Twittersphere, Rupert Murdoch has praised three politicians: Republican candidate Rick Santorum, New York mayor Michael Bloomberg and Scottish First Minister Alex Salmond. Of the latter, Murdoch tweeted:

Great to see alexsalmond Briton of the year. Fellow antiestablishmentarian's Econmist piece equal very good and bs!

Murdoch's praise for the Scottish National Party leader may come as a surprise to some but, in fact, the two have a long-standing friendship. As the Salmond-Murdoch letters released last year demonstrated, the SNP head assiduously wooed the News Corp boss after becoming First Minister in 2007.

Following a meeting with Murdoch in New York in October 2007, he wrote:

I enjoyed our conversation and, as ever, found your views both insightful and stimulating.

On another occasion, after the opening of News International's Eurocentral printing plant in Motherwell, Salmond fawned:

Thank you so much for the invitation to open the splendid new plant at Eurocentral. I hope that News International goes from strength to strength and that your "big bet" in newspapers will pay off.

The charm offensive continued. Murdoch was offered tickets to a Ryder Cup golf tournament in Kentucky and was twice invited to be Salmond's "special guest" at the 2009 Homecoming Festival.

The First Minister was eventually rewarded for his sycophancy when the Scottish Sun backed the SNP at the last Holyrood election and when the paper's executives treated him to a curry dinnner after his party's remarkable victory.

Murdoch, who is proud of his Scottish ancestry, clearly has a soft spot for Salmond, as he did for Gordon Brown (unlike his son, James, he anguished over the decision to back the Conservatives). But in the post phone-hacking world is this one friend the SNP leader can do without?

George Eaton is political editor of the New Statesman.

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For the Ukip press officer I slept with, the European Union was Daddy

My Ukip lover just wanted to kick against authority. I do not know how he would have coped with the reality of Brexit.

I was a journalist for a progressive newspaper.

He was the press officer for the UK Independence Party.

He was smoking a cigarette on the pavement outside the Ukip conference in Bristol.

I sat beside him. It was a scene from a terrible film. 

He wore a tweed Sherlock Holmes coat. The general impression was of a seedy-posh bat who had learned to talk like Shere Khan. He was a construct: a press officer so ridiculous that, by comparison, Ukip supporters seemed almost normal. He could have impersonated the Queen Mother, or a morris dancer, or a British bulldog. It was all bravado and I loved him for that.

He slept in my hotel room, and the next day we held hands in the public gallery while people wearing Union Jack badges ranted about the pound. This was before I learned not to choose men with my neurosis alone. If I was literally embedded in Ukip, I was oblivious, and I was no kinder to the party in print than I would have been had I not slept with its bat-like press officer. How could I be? On the last day of the conference, a young, black, female supporter was introduced to the audience with the words – after a white male had rubbed the skin on her hand – “It doesn’t come off.” Another announcement was: “The Ukip Mondeo is about to be towed away.” I didn’t take these people seriously. He laughed at me for that.

After conference, I moved into his seedy-posh 18th-century house in Totnes, which is the counterculture capital of Devon. It was filled with crystal healers and water diviners. I suspect now that his dedication to Ukip was part of his desire to thwart authority, although this may be my denial about lusting after a Brexiteer who dressed like Sherlock Holmes. But I prefer to believe that, for him, the European Union was Daddy, and this compulsion leaked into his work for Ukip – the nearest form of authority and the smaller Daddy.

He used to telephone someone called Roger from in front of a computer with a screen saver of two naked women kissing, lying about what he had done to promote Ukip. He also told me, a journalist, disgusting stories about Nigel Farage that I cannot publish because they are libellous.

When I complained about the pornographic screen saver and said it was damaging to his small son, he apologised with damp eyes and replaced it with a photo of a topless woman with her hand down her pants.

It was sex, not politics, that broke us. I arrived on Christmas Eve to find a photograph of a woman lying on our bed, on sheets I had bought for him. That was my Christmas present. He died last year and I do not know how he would have coped with the reality of Brexit, of Daddy dying, too – for what would be left to desire?

This article first appeared in the 19 January 2016 issue of the New Statesman, The Trump era