“This one is kinda dirty. Let’s see what the other one looks like.” Less than two hours before the guests started arriving for Rupert Murdoch’s 95th birthday party and a manager at the high-end Manhattan chophouse had spotted a stain on the welcome mat. It turns out they keep not one but two back-up red carpets at the Grill. I’d arrived hours earlier, accompanied by my photographer after receiving a tip-off the great and good of Murdoch-world would be descending on the venue. My plan – having learned every tabloid trick in the book from an early career at the Sun – was to have my snapper hose every Murdoch exec, editor and prominent person while I shouted a few questions. I would then publish the photo haul in a special edition of my newsletter, Breaker.
But first I had to show my hand to the two dozen-plus Murdoch security contingent outside the restaurant. “G’day I’m Lachlan,” I told the group of former NYPD cops. “And I run a media company and I’m going to be here tonight with a photographer taking photos and asking questions.” Some of them looked at me as if I were a bad smell. Others nodded their heads in a sign of respect. “Paul” from Fox security approached me. “You can take photos but no questions.” “We will be asking questions, mate,” I responded, firmly. We were on a public street. The irony seemed lost on Paul: he works for a company whose journalists ask questions of public figures every day.
News UK CEO Rebekah Brooks was one of the first to arrive. I asked my former boss what she had gotten her boss, Murdoch, for his birthday. “I’m not telling you that,” she said with a wry smile as she made her way upstairs. Always the operator, she would soon return, accompanied by longtime Murdoch PR consigliere Steven Rubenstein, which gave me the opportunity to pass my present for Rupert, which I had brought with me in an envelope: a lifetime subscription to Breaker. After all, what do you get the man who has everything?
“Somebody is going to trip,” one of the security guards said about the red carpet that was curling on the street, providing an obstacle for guests pulling up in black SUVs. Tape was dispatched to force it to the ground. Rupert arrived in a tux, accompanied by his glamorous wife, Elena Zhukova. Next through the door came his son Lachlan and wife Sarah. My namesake gave me a warm embrace. It was the first time I’d met him. I was struck by how physically fit he is. I made a mental note to get back to the gym – or take up spear fishing. Rupert’s ex Wendi Deng and their daughters Grace and Chloe came next, followed by a casting call of current and former Murdoch execs: Robert Thomson, Keith Poole, Emma Tucker, Victoria Newton, Col Allan (who told me he had bought Murdoch a birthday Mars bar), Les Hinton, Tony Gallagher. Then there were those that arrived with their own security: Jared and Ivanka Trump, Tony Blair and Rishi Sunak.
Lord Rothermere was “disappointed” about losing out to Mathias Döpfner and Axel Springer in his bid to buy the Telegraph. Other Murdoch favorites made their way inside, including Barry Diller, Conrad Black, Michael Bloomberg, Paul Dacre, Doug Burgum and Glenn Youngkin. Donald Trump sent a video message. “Rupert, I know you’re turning 95 but don’t worry. Only the good die young.” Hugh Jackman sprinted through the door. When I asked what he was singing, he said it would be a “mixed bag.” Inside, he belted out Frank Sinatra’s “Fly Me to the Moon” and a couple from The Greatest Showman. He finished with a rendition of “I Still Call Australia Home.” All the Aussies, including the birthday boy, joined in.
When Murdoch left just after 10 p.m. he said the evening had been “splendid.” Lachlan ensured he got safely into his car. Brooks, Newton and Allan packed into an Uber headed for an afterparty that I was not invited to. But a Fox representative did bring me a slice of Rupert’s cake. I headed back downtown on the subway. Had we just captured one of the last times all these Fleet Street figures would be in the same room?
It was one of those nights I was grateful for the training I got at Wapping as a know-nothing 22-year-old. Many of the people we had papped taught me much of what I know today. I got to my favorite pub in New York: Fanelli Café in Soho, just before 1 a.m. Famished, and with the kitchen about to close, I ordered a steak sandwich. “So what’s news with Murdoch?,” Dan, one of the longstanding bartenders, asked as he made me a dirty martini. I laughed and pointed to the cake in a plastic container in front of me. “That’s Rupert Murdoch’s birthday cake,” I said. “He’s still alive?” asked Dani, his colleague. “Alive and kicking.”
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