Going to the theatre is a joy. When you are a character on the stage, less so. Over the past couple of months, I have been depicted in two plays. Having worked for Murdoch for years, I clearly enjoy pain and so, at my own expense, I went to see both. First up was a one-man show called Monstering the Rocketman at the Arcola in Dalston, which detailed how the Sun (me!) had accused Elton John of being involved in rent boy sessions. Our source, it turned out, had sold us a pack of lies, made more painful by the fact that the news editor, the reporter and I spent 90 minutes cross-questioning this stoat to satisfy ourselves he was telling the truth. It’s easy to be misled. If Carl Beech had come to us, I suspect we might well have fallen for his VIP paedophile lies in the same way lefty LBC presenter James O’Brien did. (Not that there was ever an apology from him.) After the Elton John story blew up, I remember sitting opposite his lawyer and I asked him what he wanted. He told me he’d like to carve the word ‘Bollocks’ on my forehead. That wasn’t possible, but £1 million in libel damages was. Murdoch took it quite well. After 20 minutes of uninterrupted........

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