When Rupert Murdoch's wife Wendi sprung from her pew to deliver a stonking right hook at the doofus attempting to humiliate her man with a plate full of shaving foam on LIVE TELEVISION, only someone with a heart of stone wouldn't have been moved to tears by the images. She was a lioness protecting her lion. A shark protecting her whale. An angry bitch protecting her husband who is also a dog. You probably get the gist with the animal comparisons. But above everything else, and regardless of the nature of their relationship behind closed doors, instinct kicked in, and her message was clear - "if you want to mess with my family, you'll have to get past me first".
That afternoon, I wept. I wept joyfully and with unrestrained emotion. It was life affirming, and it was also the perfect live inquisition based metaphor for how a good relationship works. Because, what the Murdochs proved in those few dramatic seconds is that during times of crisis, it doesn't matter that your husband might be a flawed megalomaniac dragging the nation's press into the sewers, he is still the man that showers you with sloppy midnight kisses and shares croissants with you at breakfast.
Wendy, for better or worse, loves him.
That nanosecond told you everything about that relationship. Even if Wendy had risen from her chair to lead a full four minute rendition of "I'll Stand By You" by The Pretenders, it wouldn't have had quite the same impact. Relationships are rocky, we all go through thrilling ups, and rock bottom downs, but when the odds aren't in your favour, a good relationship will shine through. You will stand up for one another, and protect one another.
For everything that might be impossible to like about Murdoch, Wendy sees the man behind the cruel craggy face. Perhaps he's brimming with moments of genuine tenderness when the cameras aren't on him? Every now and then, he might even be REALLY NICE. So, as the drama rapidly unfolds, and bad journalists continue to give the ones who wouldn't have the first clue about how to access their own telephone messages let alone anyone else's a bad name, cling on to the only uplifting life raft in this otherwise bobbing ocean full of bile - that true love can pretty much exist anywhere. Even in a figurative toilet.