(continued from Vol. III.)

London is a city blessed with gorgeous old palaces — you know, actual palaces — as well as hundreds of buildings that could easily pass for royal abodes.  Your intrepid correspondent was especially intrigued to learn that the target of her investigation, Rupert Murdoch, maintains a residence in London.  As the 117th-richest person in the entire world, Murdoch’s palace would surely prove to be spectacular specimen.

I grabbed the only tool any journalist ever needs — my trusty iPhone with its shitty camera, unreliable Internet access, short battery life, and GPS with impossibly slow-moving maps (good thing Shred of Truth.com was paying for my AT&T data roaming charges, amirite?) — and set out on foot.

Rupert Murdoch's face. (via Wikipedia)

As I wandered aimlessly in circles hoping that the iPhone GPS would eventually pinpoint my position on a map of London, I figured in the meantime I’d just start asking around.  Rupert Murdoch, after all, is a public figure whose face had recently been splashed all over the newspapers and TV, until the debt ceiling circus and subsequent financial shitstorm knocked his mug right off.  Unfortunately, my “just ask around!” strategy did not work out so well.  Neither the concierge nor either of the bartenders at the hotel had any idea who the hell I was even talking about, much less where he might live.  It was not a total loss, however, since I thoroughly enjoyed several glasses of a lovely Vermentino whilst simultaneously working on my hard-hitting investigation into the burning question of our time, WTF, motherfuckers.

When my GPS finally transformed me into a sexy, pulsing blue dot on a map of London, I discovered that I was within walking distance of not one but several enormous palaces.  It had started to drizzle, but for some reason, I didn’t care at all.  (Probably the Vermentino.)

I strolled through Green Park until I saw a behemoth of a building in the distance.  As I got closer, I noticed many people had gathered outside of its high gates, chatting in various languages and taking pictures through the iron bars.  Could this be the Murdoch mansion?  If it were indeed a private residence, it would certainly be a magnificent one.  Bewildered and excited, I pressed my way through the crowd.  “Excuse me, is this Rupert Murdoch’s palace?” I asked in the direction of no one in particular.  No one answered.  “EXCUSE ME, DOES RUPERT MURDOCH LIVE HERE?”  Well, that certainly got some attention:  a small group of (hawt!) young men turned around and glared at me.  One said, “No, you idiot, this is Buckingham Palace.”

Could this be Murdoch’s palace? Nooooooo. It's apparently some d00d’s named “Buckingham,” or somesuch.

It had stopped raining, and a pleasant walk soon brought me to what my GPS indicated were the grounds of St. James Palace.  But the GPS just couldn’t be right.  There was house music blaring from loudspeakers fer chrissakes, and, I mean, look at it:

What’s that, you say?  All that unsightly VISA signage right there in the foreground?  No palace worthy of the name would ever succumb to such crass commercialism.

Oh.  Yes.  They.  Would.  What you are seeing there is the fencing set up around a makeshift outdoor stadium for the express purposes of hosting a beach volleyball tournament.  Not a polo tournament, or a medieval jousting tournament.  A beach volleyball tournament.  Brought to you by VISA!  (By the way, my next palace is totally going to have a beach volleyball tournament stadium with a DJ spinning house records.)

Rude locals.

I skirted around the fencing and approached the sprawling mansion, looking for any indication that Mr. Murdoch might dwell inside.  Was he a huge fan of beach volleyball, and yet I had somehow missed this in all my exhaustive research?  If he indeed lived in St. James Palace, the locals working on and around the grounds should be able to tell me, so I approached a few of them with my trademarked friendly smile (fake, of course!), and politely inquired as to whether this might be the residence of Rupert Murdoch.  Well, the locals were absolutely no help whatsoever.  They completely ignored me no matter how many times I yelled and screamed my question at them.  (And people say New Yorkers are rude? PLEASE.)

I stormed away in frustration, and schlepped forlornly back to my hotel room.  Back in WIFI range, I looked up St. James Palace on the Intertubes.  On its Wikipedia page I learned that this particular palace is no longer a private residence, so I could definitely cross it off my list.  It does, however, have a long and bizarre history.  For example:

Two of Henry VIII’s children died there: Henry FitzRoy, 1st Duke of Richmond and Somerset and Mary I (Mary’s heart and bowels were buried in the palace’s Chapel Royal).

I’m pretty sure I could dedicate the rest of my life to it and never come up with a satisfactory answer to WTF is up with THAT, motherfuckers?

I was back to the proverbial drawing board Internet.  For what seemed like hours I slogged through web site after web site, cursing Google and re-refining my search terms, until a brief dispatch from Reuters caught my eye.  It was buried among hundreds of news stories about the phone hacking scandal, and its headline read Murdoch exits London home with arm around Brooks.  I eagerly clicked the link.  No pictures.  Damn!  But lo and behold, I had struck gold:

Murdoch, who flew into Britain earlier on Sunday to deal with an escalating phone-hacking scandal at his News of the World tabloid that Brooks used to edit, answered: “This one,” gesturing at [Rebekah] Brooks, when asked what his first priority was.

[Murdoch and Brooks], both smiling, then went into the Stafford hotel opposite Murdoch’s apartment in the upmarket Mayfair area of London.

I swung into action, stopping only at the front desk to exchange my $20.00 bills for £10.00 notes.  (Talk about a financial crisis.  Sheesh.).  The Stafford Hotel, conveniently enough, has a web site that tells you exactly where it is.  It also did not escape my keen eye that the Stafford is home to The American Bar (pdf), which sure sounded to me like it was worth the trip alone.  Charles Guano, who for some reason never did like his surname, had been the head barman there for 42 years until his death, and in his time at The American Bar he had done something extraordinary:

There is a display case containing glasses that have been used by the various members of the Royal family. Directly after use, Charles would wrap the glass in cling film and place it in the case. Therefore The Stafford has the DNA of most of the senior members of the Royal family and could at some future date recreate them!

Let us fervently hope not.  But those very same DNA samples could potentially reveal incontrovertible proof of some serious hanky-panky among the royals, could they not?  I mean, what if it turned out that Prince Charles were the son of Ronald Reagan?  Or Adolph Hitler?  OMFG!  As a highly experienced and well-respected investigative journalist who prides herself on holding the very highest of ethical standards, let me just say that these Stafford folks are potentially sitting on a gold mine.  I’m talking, blockbuster movie deal goldmine.  You know what I’m saying?

I was headed to the Stafford, stat.

(to be continued…)