I'm trying to get out for a blast through the hills every morning this week. So far so good, I'm two for two. Nothing terribly noteworthy in terms of distance, but a run is a run is a slow sweaty plod through tall damp grass.
I've just returned from sitting through HP 7.2. No, not an unnecessary rebranding of the best sausage sandwich condiment for the digital age but the much heralded final chapter in JK Rowling's meisterwerk (not to mention multi-millionaire maker) Harry Potter. How was it? Hmm ... what's the word I'm looking for ... ah yes, there it is, skulking under the desk like a chastened elf; Underwhelmed. Sorry, I'm just not that wild about Harry.
Of far more interest has been the 'Hackgate' saga with comings and going at the House of Commons to make Hogwarts look like a rest home in financial crisis. The appearance of the long-lost Phantom Phlan Phlinger (Tiswas TM) proved a welcome distraction from James Murdoch's droning imitation of Data, the emotionless automaton from Star Trek: The Next Generation. I was worried that James's mask might slip to reveal a mess of old wires and rather dim, blinking lights.
Old Man Murdoch appeared at times as a doped-up shambling fool, dazed and confused with alarmingly long 'dramatic' pauses that suggested a mild concussion via the notoriously low-ceilinged HOC men's room. It was a bravura performance that surely fooled no-one. His was a curious case of Benjamin Button; initially frail and apparently infirm, by his own admission incredibly 'humble', yet rallying to finish strongly, banging the table to drive home his message as if pounding blunt nails into exceedingly dense wood.
The post-match airwaves were choked with schadenfreude as political commentators saught to settle old scores, yet to those of us looking on this was little more than a charade. It's not the generally mealy-mouthed MPs who will call the Master of Puppets to account. I see Murdoch gliding relatively unscathed through a protracted parliamentary investigation. No, it's the long, sharp knives of the News International shareholders that Old Rupe should fear. Income Tax evasion did for Al Capone and corporate governance may yet cut the wily antipodean's strings.
The lack of interest shown by another of our usualy vitriolic national rags, the Daily Mail is intriguing. Their leader writers have steered well clear of all this, much in the way a driver might avoid stopping at the scene of a bad accident for fear the police might discover the body they're carrying in the boot. Expect the met's net to widen significantly in the months ahead. Meanwhile let all UK tax payers rejoice as we foot the bill for an endless procession of committees and enquiries just as we did in '03 and '07. Plus ca change.
I cannot help but wonder what dear old Hunter S. Thompson would have made of it all. He would certainly have enjoyed the potential fall of an intercontinental media mogul but I also suspect he may have displayed a grudging admiration for some of Rupert's less orthadox quirks. HST certainly wasn't above journalistic skullduggery in the pursuit of a good story. I, along with none other than the great Danny Baker it seems, miss the old bastard terribly.
Enough rambling. I leave you with this utter gem from modern day poet and psychotic madrigal genius, Bill Bailey. Good, night, and don't let the telephone bugs bite.
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
