By October 1950, Rupert Murdoch had finally escaped Corio Bay and Geelong Grammar, and while he had matriculated with only middling results, he was about to live out another unfulfilled dream of his father’s: higher education.

He was granted a place studying politics, philosophy and economics at Oxford’s Worcester College, a 230-year-old bastion of privilege, enlightenment and influence more deeply ingrained than any colonial institution back home. At Oxford, Murdoch cast a similar impression to his school days: well-liked among a small coterie of friends and amused mentors; dismissed as gauche, spoilt and crass by some; and regarded as quiet and dull by others.