I came to London on a Top Secret Murdoch Mission dammit, and that is exactly what I will now report (smoking ruins and riot police notwithstanding).  After all, as a journalist I take very seriously my solemn oath to seek out the answer to what is perhaps the most pressing question of our time:  WTF, motherfuckers? 

Rupert Murdoch, of course, is the 80 year old media magnate behind such roiling cesspools of conservative ca-ca as Fox News, The Wall Street Journal, right-wing tabloids like the New York Post, and many, many other media outlets around the world.  According to Forbes’ annual list of the richest Americans, Murdoch is the 38th richest person in the U.S., and the 117th-richest in the world, with a net worth estimated at $7.6 billion.  According to Wiki:

The Economist describes Murdoch as “inventing the modern tabloid”, as he developed a pattern for his newspapers, increasing sports and scandal coverage and adopting eye-catching headlines.

Murdoch and his hawt wife Wendi in 2011 (via Wikipedia)

Well, Rupert Murdoch is now the focus of scandal coverage and eye-catching headlines himself.  You see, apparently it was common practice at his now-defunct UK paper News of the World for reporters to hack into the voice mail accounts of celebrities, politicians, dead soldiers, and in one case a murdered young girl whose family held out hope that she was still alive after discovering that some of her voice mail messages had been deleted — as it turned out, by News of the Worldreporters.  There have also been allegations of police corruption involving a coverup of some earlier phone-hacking allegations.

When Murdoch was called to testify about these shenanigans on July 19 before a committee from the House of Commons, whatever that is, a most remarkable thing happened:  some d00d hit Murdoch in the face with a shaving cream pie,and thus became a personal hero of mine.  Equally astonishing was the lightning-quick reaction of his wife Wendi, who lunged toward the pie-flinger and landed a vicious right hook before poor drowsy old Rupert even realized that he’d been pied.  The Pie Man is one Jonathan May-Bowles, a.k.a. Johnnie Marbles, who is currently serving a four-week sentence in a London prison for this egregious “assault.”

The Murdoch pie video, of course, went viral.  Cue the Assclown Brigades: Jonathan May-Bowles’ Facebook page lit up with comments, ranging from enthusiastic support for his pie-related activities, to enthusiastic support for his getting raped and beaten in prison.  This last sentiment more than likely emanates from Manly-Men chickenhawkers suffering from acute Conservative Personality Disorder who regularly fantasize about violent prison rape…and then feel so very, very dirty afterward.  But the worst of the lot, by far, comes from those who absolutely abhor the high art of mockery, in all its glorious splendor.  Like this tool:

Yes, my loyal readers, there are many walking among us who inexplicably value formality over content in public discourse.  There is no hope for these people.  In addition, though, the proposition that some committee members from the House of Commons were going to make Rupert Murdoch “legitimately squirm” is simply ludicrous on its face.  The man has $7.6 billion.  Neither committee hearings nor pie vaulting is likely to improve the dismal functioning of Western democracy or corporate media one whit.  However, one of those courses of action is a great deal more satisfying.  But I digress.

I was quite impressed with a statement Mr. May-Bowles’ barrister, Tim Greaves, made in court (as reported by the Telegraph):  “Slapstick and throwing pies dates back to the 1900s as a recognised form of protest.”  For regular readers of this blog, it should go without saying that I fervently believe there is far too little protest of this sort (or any sort) in the U.S.  And because I take very seriously my solemn journalistic oath to get to the bottom of WTF, motherfuckers, upon arriving in London I immediately sent an email to Tim Greaves, Pie Hero’s barrister, hoping to score one or two soundbites from him in response to my hard-hitting questions:

1. The plot hatched by Richard Reid, the so-called “Shoe Bomber,” led to airline passengers having to remove their shoes before boarding flights in the U.S. and in many other countries around the globe. In the wake of your client’s pie-ing of Mr. Murdoch, do you foresee more invasive security screenings being implemented worldwide in order to prevent shaving cream pies from being smuggled into government buildings?
2. What about mooning?  I have long held that mooning is an underrated and underused form of protest, and, I note, one which requires the smuggling of nothing other than one’s own buttocks into the visual range of the target: no security inspection could possibly prevent it. Could one deploying such a method of protest be charged with assault in the U.K., or would obscenity charges be more likely?  And what if the hypothetical mooner were wearing a thong?

I figured he might reply, if he has a sense of humor.

Apparently he does not.

Portcullis House

Oh, well.  Onward!  I was understandably quite eager to pay a visit to the hallowed site of the glorious pie-whacking, which turns out to be a government building called “Portcullis House.” It sits directly across the street from Big Ben and the iconic Houses of Parliament.  Casing the building nonchalantly and deploying my keen sense of observation and sharp intellect, I was immediately struck by the noisy, enormous construction zone completely encircling Portcullis House on all three of its accessible sides.

Major construction work surrounding Portcullis House.

Note the finger on the trigger.

I decided to ask the on-site security d00ds whether they had been present on Pie Day, and to inquire whether they had any firsthand knowledge of new security procedures to prevent shaving cream pies from being smuggled into Portcullis House in the future.  (I was NOT going to be asking about mooning, as I do not want to blow my cover with security in case the need ever arises for me to moon the British Parliament.)  But just as I was approaching the security guards, two things suddenly dawned on me.  One, these d00ds had guns.  Big guns. Machine guns.  And when a gentleman in front of me politely asked one of them an innocent question, he immediately put his finger on the trigger.  Now, I know these guys are a bit touchy what with days of lawless looting and violent riots and firebombings of police stations and all, but let’s be honest here:  I do not take my solemn journalistic oath all that seriously.  I do not report from active war zones for a reason, people.  But more importantly, in a flash the answer to my shaving cream pie security question became blindingly obvious.  Why had I not seen it all along?

The construction zone surrounding the building was clearly nothing less than a Top Secret, massive infrastructure project to install the latest, cutting-edge shaving cream pie detection technology at Portcullis House!

Frankly, I could not wait to break this incredible news on my blog. Shred of Truth was going to get a ton of freaking hits on my very first assignment!  But wait, I thought, what if there were something more to the story than this?  What I needed was some distance, a place to think things through from another perspective before returning to my hotel to drink blog.  I spun around quickly and headed toward the Thames, then made a beeline to the footbridge.  If only there were someplace nearby I could go to gather my thoughts!  And then there it was, sparkling in the sunshine, towering over me and the rest of the city:

The London Eye.

I commandeered a pod, and was soon swept gently upward into the sky, with a crystal clear view of Portcullis House and its surroundings.  The view was spectacular.  I felt serene; peaceful, even.  I took a deep breath.  Exhaled.

Very busy docks in front of Portcullis House.

And then I noticed something curious:  large boats were pulling in and out of the slips directly in front of Portcullis House, in full view of the d00ds with machine guns.  The ships were maneuvering precisely: no sooner had one pulled out than another was waiting to ease into its place.  What could this mean?  Think.

If I were in charge of ensuring that no more shaving cream pies would ever enter Portcullis House, what would I do?  I drew on my extensive knowledge of Black-Ops and VIP security, and rifled through ideas in my head like flip cards, discarding them one by one.  Shaving cream.  There are many brands of it of course, and each one has a unique scent.  Scent.  Scent… that was the key.  What would obviously be required were rotating teams of highly trained police dogs, each pack accustomed to picking up a particular scent of men’s shaving products.  One dog from each command would need to be smuggled into the building surreptitiously and when their shifts were over, their handlers would take them away for food and rest, whereupon those tired puppies would be replaced by bright-eyed fresh ones for the next security shift.  Access to and from the waterway would of course be tactically ideal.  And I’ll be damned:  are there not one but two covered walkways leading to two underground tunnels clearly visible, running right from the water toward Portcullis House?  Yes.  I was clearly witnessing a training exercise of some sort, perhaps a dry run, for when the new shaving cream detection procedures finally go live.

I had cracked Britain’s best security.  M16 will no doubt be furious with me.  And even more so when they realize that for all this security theatre, they will still be utterly helpless to prevent the Jonathan May-Bowles’ and Iris Vander Pluyms of the world from mooning.

(to be continued…)