The following account of the biggest news about the news since the news was new has been pieced together from half-listened to radio reports, news round-ups while waiting for The Sopranos to start and reading a mix of BBC and The Times apps while cleaning my teeth, bleary-eyed. At 6 o’clock in the morning. To the best of my knowledge here is how it all unfolded.
Sometime In 2000-and-something: Someone, probably from The Guardian, pointed out that someone, probably employed by News Corp, had been getting big story scoops by cheating. Lots of wailing and gnashing of teeth, lots of denial and shrugging, then the whole thing was swept under a giant metaphorical carpet whence upon a giant metaphorical table and chairs were placed and we all carried on eating money and going on holiday.
Sometime After That: A man and another man, one was called Glenn Mulcare the other one was called something else entirely, got sent to prison for listening to other people’s voicemail messages. We all wonder what on Earth could be interesting about voicemail messages as the only ones we leave/retrieve are 3 and half minutes of the inside of someone’s pocket and a muffled ‘DAVE!’.
Last Month: Someone, this time definitely from The Guardian, listened intently as someone else, this time definitely from News Corp, told them that the everyone in the world was cheating at journalism. We all told The Policemen, who shrugged. A lot. We all carried on remembering when we used to eat money and go on holidays.
A Little After That: Shit. OK, we’re listening now. Line crossed. Not funny anymore. What the very fucking fuck?! Not only did they hack the poor girl’s voicemail but they gave the parents and The Policemen false dawn by deleting messages, thus giving the impression young Milly was still alive. Not tittle-tattle or rumour about vacuous ‘celebrity’ but serious and unforgivable intrusion into the lives of the The Dowlers.
Very Shortly After That: Diddy David Cameron says sorry for giving some dick who was in charge of New of the World at the time the job of being in charge of what he says, by way of giving the worst speech by any Prime Minister in living memory. He should have kept the guy on – would’ve been a better speech.
Some Time A Week Or So Ago: Rebekah Brooks, who categorically has NEVER been married to a homosexual, said the sort of sorry that my son casually throws at me when I tell him the telly is up too loud. After a short lunch and a series breathless farts, she closes News of the World. Leaving a lot of really-very-nice and not-ever-guilty-in-any-way journalists out of work until the next day when they all start work on the secret project with the codename ‘The Sun Day – Sun on Sunday’ which is definitely never going to happen.
Last Week (I Think): Rupert Murdoch, who looks like Methuselah’s dad, buys a street in London and has a lunch with his ever flatulant and never married to a homosexual chief of newspapers in Britain. “Nothing to see here!”, he cries. Then licks his eyeballs and disappears back into Rebekah. We don’t like this and the people who claim for duck houses, invisible houses and employ their own eyelids as £35,000 ‘Vision Focus Groups’ – The Politicals – see we don’t like this and think, “Oh, fuck.”
Over The Weekend: I went gay for Rebekah Brooks just as she decided that she’d had enough, and the people who write things down for a living and let us read them – The Medias – had more of a field day than when Field Marshall Field held St Martin-in-the-Field’s Best Field Competition. The Medias wanked themselves silly and nearly made The Politicals swallow their whistles. We stood back and wished we were all eating money and going on holiday.
RIP Sean Hoare.
Tuesday (or whenever, I was working): The Department of Sport, Walking, Spitting and Sitting On The Sofa Eating Jaffa Cakes sat and spoke to everyone they could think of who had anything to do with the whole sorry situation. A man who ran The Policemen (who said he didn’t want to be in The Policemen anymore) was terribly nice but had completely forgotten everything, apart from the bits he remembered which he told us were definitely Assistant Policeman’s fault. Then someone else with an Italian name came on and Twitter didn’t like him. Eventually, Rupert Murdoch took a break from eating our brains to demonstrate how we will all act after he has eaten our brains by being immensely dribbly and forgetting stuff. His definitely not gay son (Martin? Justin?) said some things and was told to shush by a fat man that Twitter really, really liked. A very elegant lady in terrible clothes, but with awfully nice legs, slapped a portly young man on the head for throwing a plate of foam at her confused old father. Or husband. Martin or Jimmy or whatever, the not gay son, sat down and didn’t get involved in a really intimidating way. We all watched. Wondering what to have for tea. Rebekah came on and decided she was a victim. We all watched and ate our tea, emailing ITV to get her on this year’s I’m A Celebrity.
Today: Rupert flies home with his fit wife, Diddy David flies home and tells us all to stop talking about it, Rebekah flies home on her new broom and we all realise with a heart-stopping amount of shame that while all this is jolly important and needs a ruddy good going over, we’ve completely forgotten the scale of the human disaster in Somalia and someone has sold the NHS.
So, that’s how I’ve seen it. Hope you’re up to speed now.