The Stafford Hotel’s American Bar (pdf) looks almost exactly as I had pictured it:  old-school mens-clubby, with dark wood paneling, green leather furniture, crisp white linens, serious bartenders.  In fact it looked very much like its New York City counterparts, the big-money boys clubs chock full of older men in expensive suits, with a few conservatively-dressed, middle-aged dames sprinkled among them.  In other words, places that I never, ever go, unless I happen to be working undercover on a Top Secret Palace mission —  like this one.

I inquired with the host about some food and drink, and the gracious gentleman said “Of course, Madame,” and led me to a quiet corner near the end of the bar.  I promptly parked my royal arse on a green leather sofa.  Out of nowhere a small army appeared, and set about expertly draping layers of sparkling white linens over the coffee table.  My drink order arrived within seconds, and along with it came a smashing selection of complimentary snacks:  smoked nuts, Spanish olives, and tiny chips and crackers.  You know what?  This place was all right.

I pretended to be doing Important Work Things on my iPhone, as I eavesdropped on two different conversations.  It didn’t take very long until I determined that both were insufferably, brain-achingly dull.  In the meantime, I kept noticing various staff and patrons approaching the wall just to my left, between me and the end of the bar.  They would mumble something and point at some of the pictures hung there.  Despite the proximity, their hushed and reverent tones made it difficult to make out much of what they were saying.  My food arrived:  a traditional British fish cake.  (Important note to readers: DO NOT order a traditional British fish cake, ever.  It turns out that this staple of English fare is neither fishy nor cakey, but some unholy amalgam of briny, oily clumps.  Do not go there.)

I distinctly heard one of the staff, who was hovering at the wall to my left, say this, loud and clear:  “A photographer from The Times is coming.”

Presumably, that would be Rupert Murdoch’s newspaper, The Times.  What the hell was going on here?  I flagged down the d00d who said it, and asked him, “What the hell is going on here?”

“A long-time patron of the bar who lived in the hotel for many years passed away yesterday, and The Times is sending someone to photograph the bar for a story.”

“Oh,” I said. “I’m very sorry to hear that.”

“Thank you, Madame.”

“Did you mean Rupert Murdoch’s newspaper, The Times?”

“Yes.  You know, he lives right across the street.  Comes in here all the time!  It’s his favorite bar.”

I almost choked on my fish cake.  Frankly, I was kind of choking on it already.

“Oh?  Really.  I had no idea.  Do you happen to know which building he lives in?”

“Of course.  It’s across the street.  He lives at the top of the one with the underground driveway.  The tall one.”

“The one with all the glass and concrete?”

“Fantastic views of the park.”

Oh, no.  No, no, no.  Rupert Murdoch lives in the one hideous, hulking, glass-and-concrete monstrosity?  The one so entirely out of place in the neighborhood that I nearly wailed in agony when

 I saw it?

“Excuse me,” I said, “I’ll be right back.  I need to go take a picture —   I’m – I – it’s – well, I’m a really big fan…”  He dashed off to deliver impeccable service (or a terrible fish cake) to someone else.

I stood outside the Stafford, and took it in.  Of course it has great views of the park:  it’s two stories taller than anything else around it.

I strolled by, looking for any redeeming feature.  The only one I could ascertain was off-street parking in a lot under the building.  I could see how that would be extremely useful for a billionaire media magnate under siege from the worldwide press.  Well, under siege from that tiny sliver of the worldwide press that Rupert Murdoch does not personally own.

I am telling you, Rupert Murdoch lives in the fucking Trump Tower of Mayfair.

Murdoch's Lair.

I meandered back to The American Bar and sunk into my green leather sofa, flipping through the pictures I had taken.  I couldn’t help but be reminded of the Death Star.  Maybe that was exactly the vibe he was going for:  you know, “Darth Rupert.”  Now that I think about it, it suits him perfectly, in an utterly predictable way.

In a city where one cannot spit without hitting magnificent architecture, Murdoch’s palace had turned out to be positively dismal.  My disappointment was profound.  I was practically morose.  Thank goodness I had the good sense to order another drink, because just moments later a lively, middle-aged couple entered the bar like a breath of fresh air.  These people were nothing short ofecstatic to point at the pictures on the wall to my left.  “Two gin and tonics!” the woman said to the bartender as she seated herself on the bar stool in the corner. “For Nancy!  Ooh, is this her seat?  Graeme, take a picture of me in Nancy’s seat!”

Okay.  Now I would have to investigate.  Because, WTF, motherfuckers.

(to be continued…)