THIS week I was torn between two lovers and it wasn’t an easy choice.
Option one was a large group of toned and terrific men with ginormous quadriceps riding in the le Tour de France.
Option two was the conservative, Generation X world leader and British Prime Minister David Cameron and an ageing, (surprisingly) slightly doddery and (even more surprisingly) humble Rupert Murdoch.
The television has been doing overtime in the Alexander household for the last three weeks, on at all hours of the night to showcase the frenzied activity on the Col du Tourmalet, the Col d’ Agnes, the Col de Montgenevre and last night’s Alpe-d’Huez.
But this week, the remote got almost as good a work-out as the cyclists did. We were forced to flick between le Tour and the sporting action at Westminster.
On Tuesday night, Rupert and son James faced a barrage of questioning from the British Cuture, Media and Sport Select Committee over the phonehacking scandal that has had the whole world (apart from News Corporation publications) talking.
Poor old Rupert looked like he should have been curled up in his grandpa chair at home with his electric foot warmer and a warm glass of milk, watching re-runs of Dad’s Army or Some Mothers Do ’Ave ’Em, while James appeared a little anxious about his father’s health or memory or both as he attempted to intervene every so often.
It was lovely to watch, particularly for those who quickly noticed that the wings of a shirt collar on a male sitting behind Rupert appeared as white devil horns directly above the media mogul’s head (mental note to said male — next time try a red shirt).
But by far the most entertaining part of the whole, long ordeal was the pie incident, when Wendi Deng quickly jumped to the defence of her husband, lashing out at the culprit’s forehead with a right spike harking back to her days as a school volleyball champion.
The whole affair leaves some unanswered questions. Will Rupert bother to get his jacket dry-cleaned or will he just simply leave it in the nearest Salvation Army recycling bin and invest in a new one? Will Wendi be asked back to Xuzhou to coach her old school’s team again — or perhaps the Chinese Olympic team?
And how the hell did anarchist comedian Jonni Marbles get through the supposedly tight security screening with a pie made of shaving cream?
I can just imagine the encounter at the door:
London Bobby: “ ’Allo, ’allo, so what do we ’ave ’ere?”
Marbles: “Just a cream pie for me lunch, sir.”
London Bobby: “So no guns, no knives, no nun-chukkers, no machetes, no AK-47s or surface-to-air missiles then?”
Marbles: “No, just me lunch.”
London Bobby: “Off ya go then.”
So Marbles sits in the gallery, presumably in view of plenty of other people and security cameras, and fires off his spray can without anybody thinking something is strange? Go figure.
The next night we had Prime Minister Cameron defending his appointment of former News of the World editor Andy Coulson in the bowels of Number 10 Downing Street as his media minder.
He also defended his friendship with former News International chief executive Rebekah Brooks, saying he had “never held a slumber party or seen her in her pyjamas”.
Fascinating stuff.
There they all were in the House of Commons. Six hundred and fifty parliamentarians squashed into the terraced timber benches like customers packed into the first train at Jolimont station after a grand final showdown at the MCG.
The debate was short, sharp and entertaining. Every member who wanted to put a question to the Prime Minister had to stand up in case their name was called next. Hundreds of people rose and fell in unison as the speaker introduced who the next questioner was to be.
It’s just like an overcrowded sauna and gymnasium combined — hot and sweaty and full of action.
It can also be compared to the pelaton of the aforementioned tour. Maybe Murdoch and all his corrupt cohorts at the News of the World could take a leaf out of le Tour and get on their bike.
Go Cadel!
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