Let’s do a show about sex-mad cops who let crooks get away
( There’s only one problem . . . that would be a documentary)
OH NO, it’s yet another seaside police drama featuring yet another alleged rape, crisis centre, evidence bags, DNA swabs, a noble, weeping supposed victim, a stern- faced male- female detective team, and the rest. And given that Liar, the TV series in question, takes place in yet another aggressively multicultural Blairtown, notably unlike any real place in this country, I can’t help guessing that it will end with the vindication of the accuser. I really hope I’m wrong, but what do you think?
I wonder if it’s somewhere in the rules of Ofcom, the now allembracing regulator of broadcasting, that we must have at least one such series on air at all times.
I suspect this will go on until the courts have been bludgeoned into accepting that everyone accused of rape is automatically guilty regardless of the evidence or lack of it.
This is more or less what the commissars of our cultural revolution want, and it is only the annoying old-fashioned rules of evidence and presumption of innocence which have so far prevented them from getting their way.
I make no actual comment on this. I dare not. I simply state it as a fact. I know from experience that it is futile to express any opinion on such subjects at all, however carefully reasoned.
The revolutionaries will simply pocket any expression of generosity or understanding towards their cause, and then start screaming abuse again until we all submit and shut up. This is how they proceed. In the end the whole country will be a ‘safe space’ for them, if not for others.
What is worse, there is some truth in these dramas. The police are i ndeed obsessed with sex. Illinformed people who report actual crimes to them are still shocked by their lack of interest. One such, Jack Whiteley, gave clear, damning CCTV footage of thieves taking garden furniture from his warehouse premises to Essex Police. After days of inaction, he was informed the police were ‘unable to assist as they are at saturation point with their workload’.
What that workload is we can only wonder, as so much of it seems to be done in secret by invisible officers. Now, embarrassed by media coverage, Essex Police have declared the case to be a ‘priority’, which suggests it’s better to call the newspapers first and the police second.
But contrast this with the piles of public money expended by Wiltshire Constabulary on probing allegations of sexual abuse by the very dead ex- Premier Sir Edward Heath.
I make no j udgment on Sir Edward’s guilt or innocence. But here’s the point. If Wiltshire Police find there is a case to answer, what happens next? They cannot charge him or put him on trial.
The police, who are a statutory body, are obliged by their oaths to enforce the law. Pursuing cases against long-dead people simply is not part of their duties, and we do not pay our taxes so they can do this. How was this spending authorised? Is it subject to audit? Who will pay the money back to us if it is found to be unjustified?
Or must we just accept that these increasingly remote and officious bodies are beyond our control, and avoid them as much as possible?
Here’s an idea for a truly original police series. It opens at a weekend police conference promoting ‘gender equality’, in a comfortable modern hotel.
A drunken woman is yelling at a fellow guest: ‘You will be judged professionally on the size of your t***.’ She then pulls down the front of her own dress, revealing her breasts, and declaims: ‘ Look at these, look at these, these are the breasts of someone who has had three children. They are ugly but I don’t feel the need to pump myself full of silicone to get self-esteem.’
THE drunk woman turns out to be the Assistant Chief Con stable of a vibrant modern liberated police force. She keeps her job. The other woman turns out to be a police superintendent in the same outfit. I might add that this event actually happened in real life. The force was Greater Manchester.
All the scriptwriters then need to do is to write a series on just such a liberated, but this time fictional, force, as it ignores burglaries at houses with odd numbers ( Leicestershire Police), lets off drug abusers by t he hundred ( standard police policy), closes police stations( everywhere ), ignores blazingly clear evidence of warehouse theft ( Essex, see above), and dismisses the repeated pleas of a woman whose disabled daughter is being viciously persecuted (see the case of Fiona Pilkington, Leicestershire again).
Then a man walks into one of their few remaining stations and says: ‘I’d like to make a complaint about Harold Macmillan, who sexually assaulted me when he was Prime Minister in 1960.’
And immediately the whole force proclaims ‘Operation Birch Grove’, cancels overtime and flings itself into top gear to investigate the life of a man who died in 1986. The only problem will be to decide whether this is a comedy or a tragedy.