PETER HITCHENS: Lets do a show about sex-mad cops

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 all-embracing 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.

Joanne Frogatt as Laura Nielson and Ioan Gruffudd as Andrew Earlham in new TV series Liar

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 indeed obsessed with sex. Ill-informed 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 judgment 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 Constable 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 the 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. 


When Jeremy Corbyn and Theresa May clashed over jobs and pay on Wednesday, both were right. The Prime Minister was correct about the larger-than-ever number of jobs. This is no big surprise given that immigration has greatly swollen our population.

The Labour leader was right to point out that far too many of these jobs come with miserable wages, no security or prospects. Neither can really complain. Both have long supported the open-borders, low-wage policy which has steadily reduced the living standards of the British people over many decades.

Both have supported the conscription of women into the workforce, also aimed at driving down real wages, leaving children to be looked after expensively by strangers in tax-subsidised day-orphanages. Nobody has really stood up for the old skilled trades or for the middle class. And now Mrs May is launching a new assault on what’s left of the Green Belt, which is to be carpeted with tiny unaffordable box homes and cramped flats.

Give them another few years and the whole of southern England will look like Istanbul, mile after mile of concrete and plastic, under a haze of smog, whose inhabitants try vainly to ease the pain by smoking dope or swallowing antidepressants. Who actually asked for this?


 Has spymaster Smiley finally gone senile?

I think John le Carré is one of our best modern novelists, who happens to write about spies. But, let’s put this politely, his greatest works were those he wrote some years back. I’m a little baffled by the praise for his latest, A Legacy Of Spies.

Could it be because of this passage, in which the great spymaster George Smiley starts raving about Europe. ‘What was it all for… I’m a European… If I had a mission – if I was ever aware of one beyond our business with the enemy, it was to Europe. If I was heartless, I was heartless for Europe. If I had an unattainable ideal, it was of leading Europe out of her darkness towards a new age of reason. I have it still.’

Pah! Le Carré certainly never liked the USA much, but his keenness to turn his characters into passionate Remainers is a bit new. Smiley first appears in Call For The Dead, a 1961 novel long predating our ‘European’ entanglement. It describes Smiley’s early years as a lonely secret agent in 1930s Germany, thus ‘Smiley was a sentimental man and the long exile strengthened his deep love of England’.

Maybe the Europhilia is something to do with senility. By my calculation, Smiley, who was first hired by MI6 in 1928, must now be 110. 

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