Living in one of the more remote regions of the United States, as I do, it would be so easy to turn one’s back on the whole polito/corporate scene and pretend it no longer existed. After all, waking up in the morning to soft sunshine and gentle birdsong, taking a stroll through woodland, or whittling pine at the workbench in the garage, can persuade the mind that nothing outside one’s own little world matters very much.
Yet to do so would be selfish, for there are so many unfortunate folk in the world falling at the wayside, cast adrift by society, for no better reason than the greed of others, whose bank balances are already overflowing. To turn one’s back on what’s happening in the world today, is to also rebuff them.
The problem is not confined to America. Only this week we hear from the UK of journalistic obscenities perpetrated by high-up employees of Murdoch’s News Corporation – the phone of a murdered thirteen year old girl hacked to obtain sordid headlines for a Sunday newspaper; similar hacking of phones belonging to members of the royal family; payments to police officials for underhand information.
The then editor of the News of the World paper, Rebekah Brooks, is protected by the Murdochs while hundreds of innocent employees are thrown out onto the street as Murdoch junior announces the closure of the 168-year-old tabloid.
It’s the easy way out for Murdoch and his tribe. Never mind the hundreds thrown out of work, the suffering to families suddenly finding themselves on the breadline. They don’t matter. They’re unimportant. All that matters to the Murdochs is protecting themselves and those close to them. People like Rebekah Brooks. For her they’ll sacrifice a whole newspaper.
Brooks and her ilk – those with way too much money and a false sense of ego superiority – revolve around the various ‘sets’ cozily ensconced in such high-end areas of Britain as the county of Oxfordshire. It’s where you’ll find the likes of Jeremy Clarkson, James (son of Rupert) and Kathryn Murdoch, Elizabeth Murdoch (daughter of Rupert), and of course Britain’s present prime minister, David Cameron.
Rebekah Brooks’s second husband, Charlie Brooks, is an old friend of Cameron’s from their Eton days. According to a July 2009 issue of Tatler magazine (no reference, it’s not available online):
When Charlie Brooks wakes up in the mornings at his barn in Oxfordshire, he likes nothing better than to fly to Venice from Oxford airport with his soon-to-be-wife Rebekah Wade, the dazzling redhead editor of The Sun, for lunch at Harry’s Bar.
Later in the day, after shopping and sightseeing, the couple fly back to London for dinner at Wiltons in Jermyn Street………When they’re not in Venice, Charlie and Rebekah go on holiday with the Freuds [Matthew Freud and wife, Elizabeth Murdoch] on their boat… the Oppenheim Turners at their house in St Tropez… and with the Daventrys in the country.
They spend their weekdays at their flat in Chelsea Harbour… and weekends at their two-bedroom taupe-painted barn outside Chipping Norton… [where] a portrait of Rebekah by artist Jonathan Yeo, flame-haired and smiling, sits almost forgotten against a side wall…
Their weekend routine includes shopping at Daylesford, the most extravagant supermarket in England. They call it ‘the mothership’… On Sundays they throw the occasional lunch for 20.”
It’s all very jolly and posh and they’re welcome to it. Frankly, I’d sooner cut my throat today than have to live that lifestyle, surrounded by a load of cardboard cutout people with hoighty-toighty accents and a view of the world where no-one else matters but them.
And that’s the bit that really gets to me. Let them play their silly games and lounge around all day in the Med on their fancy yachts with their cocktails and cocaine. After all, they know no different. But to regard the rest of us as though we’ve just crawled out from under a stone and soiled their designer-label boots; to play at being ‘business executives’ and chuck real working people onto the dole out of a whim, just to protect one of their own, makes them less than scum in my eyes.
Come the revolution, brother! Come the revolution!
And on that note I’m going back to my whittling.
Filed under: The Greed Set