Matthew Norman: Moving sermon from Murdoch's pulpit

From his pulpit in News Corp high church – that is The Times – US editor Gerard Baker delivers a moving sermon. Of all the joys we on the bleeding heart leftie liberal wing will take if the presidential election avoids a startling late detour, this piece highlights the most transcendent... the sound of the right squealing like lipstick-smeared pigs about wicked media bias. Gerry is scandalised about the fuss over Sarah Palin, specifically over the $150,000 (£95,000) spent at fancy stores in un-American New York to kit her out.

The electoral venom inherent in this marginally mistimed splurge is something he ignores in castigating the media for the condescension that has obscured her "political message" ... a message, as he nimbly avoids mentioning, predicated entirely on her championing the interests of the Joes, Six-Pack and The Plumber, who earn less in two years than she spent on clothes in two months.

Gerry does graciously concede that her performance has been "shaky", but others are less inclined to balance their criticisms. Two favourites here are Rush Limbaugh, the granddaddy of shock-jockery, and evangelical fellow broadcaster Pat Buchanan, the erstwhile presidential candidate whose views on homosexuality make Richard Littlejohn seem like Peter Tatchell. Pat takes umbrage with the Palin skits on Saturday Night Live (see below), concluding with "Is there a media double standard? You betcha!"

Whether these two are inspired by the Fairness Doctrine, a law likely to be passed under a Democratic president and Congress requiring talk show hosts to offer smearees some right of reply, who can say? As for Gerry, whose delicate sensibilities do him such credit, he can take some comfort from working for a stablemate of the last stronghold of fiercely independent, fact-checked reporting that is Fox News.

David's Freudian slip

Meanwhile, how pleasing to find the Family Murdoch playing a cameo in L'Affaire Osborne, with not one but two boats berthed in the Corfu marina. I wasn't aware that Rupert's daughter Elisabeth, whose 40th birthday featured in the revelries, and husband Matthew Freud had a yacht of their own. I won't pose my traditional how-did-we-get-from-Sigmund-to-Matthew-in-three-generations? teaser yet again, but will trot out the Jesuitical saw that begins "show me the boy of seven ..." Those of us Matthew charged 5p for a two minute go on the drum kit he kept at prep school won't be staggered by his ascent into the yacht-dwelling classes. As for his paying David Cameron's transport costs to join Rupert on his vessel, this goes a long way to assuaging the dread some of us have felt that the Murdoch-government axis that has ruled us wisely for 30 years might be under threat. Silly Mr Cameron. As Norman's First Law of politico-media life states: if you get into bed with Rupert, it won't be long before you're ashamedly telling the doctor about a discharge and a nasty little rash.

And for his next trick...

All of which brings us to a rousing hats off to Andy Coulson on becoming PR Professional of the Year. Andy has done a sterling job since joining Mr Cameron after so hurriedly departing the News of the World over the bugging of royal mobiles. We wish him luck with his first serious challenge, and look forward to his unleashing a damage limitation strategy of such brilliance that he defends the title next year.

Winner by a whisker

To the equally coveted award for Daily Mirror Exclusive of the Week. This goes to Damien Fletcher for Purrlock Holmes Is On The Case, in which the reporter dressed up vaguely (did Sherlock wear much Burberry?) in the detective's style to investigate a spate of stolen cats in the West Midlands. Once again, the paper's ability to ward off attempts by rivals to steal, or at least spoil, a red hot scoop is a wonder to behold.

Sarah takes the rap

If you haven't seen the Palin Rap on a recent Saturday Night Live, go to nbc.com forthwith. The sight of the Governor jigging along pliantly while the glorious Amy Poehler condenses every component of her faux naïf idiocy – "Every maverick in the house put yer hands up" Poehler raps, and up go the Palin arms – into two minutes of unbridled genius marks a new high point in the history of unwitting self-humiliation. Funnier by a caribou whisker than anything yet produced by even Tina Fey.

A top-ten intellect

It is a week, finally, since I answered the phone to hear the words "This is Jon Gaunt". My favourite columnist called to express his displeasure with the item regarding Gaunty's Best of British, dwelling on his inclusion, among his Top Ten Brits, of Rolf Harris. In terms that cannot be described as uncertain ("twat" made an appearance), Gaunty requested an apology for any implication that he failed to master the intricacies of Mr Harris's nationality. He makes it clear, he assured me, that he has fully grasped this in the book which I still have yet to possess (he declined to send a free copy, but insisted I buy one; alas, the Books etc in Hammersmith mysteriously fails to stock it, though I have hopes for the Bayswater branch). "I don't mind banter," said Gaunty, "but I'm not having you making out I'm thick." Why are our leading thinkers so often riven by insecurities about their greatest strength? Isaiah Berlin was forever seeking affirmation at the All Souls high table that he needn't don the dunce cap for the port and nuts. Gaunty, Gaunty, there is no question about the power your intellect, and I couldn't be sorrier for causing any unintended offence.