I was watching the Phone Hacking Inquiry, and trying damned hard not die of boredom. The Committee rightly refused the Murdochs of their request to read a solicitor-prepared statement, to waste some time and make the Committee submit to their betters. Rupert interupted James to curry favour when he said this was “the most humble day of” his billionaire playboy life.

They (the sodding Murdochs) had been sat there for about two hours, blandly evading each question with answers to imaginary questions from imaginary worlds; don’t kid ME that you weren’t nodding off. YAAAWWWNNN . . .

James had done much of the talking, with elongated replies to his inquisitors; Rupert kept his counsel, unless directly addressed, and kept his answers clipped and truncated; they were having a quiet laugh to themselves about it all!

The toothless inquiry had been in a state of torpor/catatonia when, almost suddenly, voices called out. A chap lurched forward with, wait for it, . . . a custard pie and murmuring something about “greedy billionaires”. The bloke was stopped, custard pie an inch from Rupert’s face and, whilst James cacked his pants, Rupert’s Thai-lady-boy-looking wife dive across and twatted the protestor/assailant in the face.

The Inquiry room was cleared, pie-boy was arrested for, er, aggravated trespass? Possession of a lethal paper plate filled with shaving foam? Any other trumped-up charge?

They returned and finished their other-worldly answers and sodded-off.

Brookes had a lot to live up to . . .