Or not . . . perhaps you really meant ‘a picture of not maintaining focus’ or ‘who is maintaining what focus?’ The patriarchal law demands: Obey Me! And the only alternative is to be abandoned, outside, nose pressed against the glass – an outlaw. So unless you, you outlaw, have an army, then the gibbet beckons relentlessly with whatever degree of scandalous violence is currently in fashion.
It is easy to imagine the Murdoch gang as fatally blinded and softened by the corrupting influences of power and wealth. Many years ago Rupie set out on a seemingly inexorable journey from those first (faltering?) steps to seemingly reach a place of being beyond the law and having the rich and famous quaking in their designer boots. Except you never quite know when the music will change and the spotlight picks out that vulnerable nakedness.
And what do they feel now? Exposed and trapped? Trapped into behaving like cowards as they attempt to not only limit their losses but to try to salvage the ship itself. Is it sinking? Are you rubbing your hands in gleeful anticipation?
Of course, Oedipus was seen as a threat by his father – these blind seers – and was supposed to have been put to death. Did any blind seer see James as a threat? It doesn’t seem likely. By the way I assume you meant that James Murdoch has never matched up to Rupie’s (a possible rhyme with herpes?) expectations. But we have the wild haired Jezebel as the joker in the pack and from what some say she appears to have been Rupie’s favourite. Does the old man still feel that way or has she fallen in his estimation?
Who needs all this going on at the age of eighty? How do you face death and not know what to do with your empire? Hand it all over to charity would not be a bad idea. Let the kids get on with a couple of thousand each.
Perhaps as a general rule we never notice the slide into some form of madness until it is too late. We’ve fallen over the edge and we’re ok but everybody else has gone weird. I can’t trust single solitary soul out there. They’re all pushing and shoving. It is too dark, too crowded and maybe I’ve had a few drinks too many. But the fact of the matter is there’s nobody I can hand over to. So like dictators everywhere I have to hang on and increase the violence.
It is quite fashionable these days for the various media to demand apologies, to demand that their victims show true contrition: a spectacle to replace public executions.
Oh please dad, can we bring back public executions for those heinous criminals, the Murdoch gang. Please, please let me show them the instruments of torture.
Are there any martyrs amongst them, walking with courage and dignity up to the waiting gibbet? I don’t think so.
By the way what is the dress code?