Hundreds of thousands are struggling for life in and around Somalia. Our whole economy is under threat with the financial shenanigans going on in and around the Eurozone. And what are we obsessed about? Voicemail.
Life and death matters taking second place to some nosy parker antics by a few journalists. Not any old journos though, journalists who work for Rupert ‘Voldemort’ Murdoch, currently the most vilified individual in the UK.
Imagine if every James Bond Baddie ever to have existed together had an orgy (on a futuristic planet able to overcome the fertilisation challenge represented by a distinct lack of ovaries) resulting nine months later in an evil lovechild, that child would be considered the goodie in a battle versus Murdoch, a despised man and possibly an overated one too. No day of the week are more than two national newspapers on our streets owned by him, he owns less than half of a satellite station hardly anyone watches, and yet we seem to think he runs the world.
Anywho I don’t really care about Mr Murdoch, I care about Mrs Murdoch. What a woman! Did you see her leap to her man’s defence as he was attacked with, err, cough, shaving foam (such a British response, ‘I say sir you’re taking over our country, I say no sir, and take this shaving foam pie upon thy head as a symbol of our outrage’).
Mrs Murdoch is everything you could dream of in a future wife, gorgeous, violent towards your enemies and in a previous marriage married to a loaded octogenarian who left her (and so now you) his billion pound fortune.
Mrs Murdoch I love you!