When I started out as a writer, I found the British tabloids laughable. Why should I care if Tory bigwigs consorted with rent boys, or where in the Caribbean Mick Jagger spent his holidays? My goals were loftier. I considered myself a literary type, an aspiring novelist. You’d never catch me toiling on Grub Street, or so I believed until I got a chance to write for the Sun of London, one of Rupert Murdoch’s papers.
