I Was Rupert Murdoch's Figleaf

A pale ray of sunlight seeps through a dusty stained glass window to light a shabby congregation - all kneeling, eyes closed in devout prayer: “Thank you, Lord. Thank you for saving us.” The scene is a Fleet Street pub at lunchtime - and, as yet, hardly a drop’s been touched. I stand up, cross myself, dust the knees of my corduroy trousers and reach to take a grateful sip of my pint of London Pride. All around me my fellow workers are rising from their knees: men - and a few women - all kno...