Another day, as the well-known phrase or saying goes, another public inquiry. This time into the rape gangs, which Surkeir has been dodging up until now on the risible grounds that the unvarnished truth will lead to a 'far-Right' backlash.
This one is long overdue and, for once, welcome. Let's hope that it throws a retina-scorching searchlight on those responsible. Not just the vile Stone Age sexual predators, but the evil politicians, social workers and police who deliberately turned a blind eye to the industrial-scale abuse of young white girls because they were terrified of being accused of 'racism' and 'Islamophobia'.
They were only too happy to sacrifice the innocence of genuinely 'vulnerable' - one of their favourite woke euphemisms - children on the altar of their own warped, self-serving, self-proclaimed moral vanity.
These sick cowards behind the cover-up deserve to rot in Hell, but they will have to live with their own consciences - if they have any. Just like the clowns who let the odious Jimmy Savile get away with it, while supping his Glennhoddle and basking in the reflected glory of his celebrity.
Jimmy Savile, as I have had occasion to remind you, remains dead. But his enablers sail on regardless, having escaped scot free.
That's not what this column is about, however. And if you are expecting heads, or even deputy heads, to roll over the rape gangs, don't hold your breath. My best guess is that no one will be sacked or even reprimanded.
No, this is about public inquiries in general, from the marathon Bloody Sunday fiasco to the ridiculous, vindictive Leveson witch-hunt into our free Press - and so on and so on and scooby dooby dooby to the absurd Covid inquiry set up primarily to trash Boris and absolve the 'science' of any blame. From which, no 'lessons' will be learned.
The only winners here will be the lawyers, trebles all round and refreshed all the way to the swimming pools at their multi-million-pound second homes in the Cotswolds down the road from Clarkson's Farm.
Hundreds of millions of taxpayers' money will be flushed down the gurgler, and by the time the official report is issued (some of) the villains will be long since retired on gold-plated pensions or stone dead. All will either be absolved or beyond righteous retribution.
Speaking of Savile, the incompetent Plods behind the appalling Nonces In High Places investigation, aka Operation Midland, launched on the back of the Old Bill's utter failure to nick him, have all escaped sanction.
Top cops Dick of Dock Green, 'Fat Pat' Gallen, and now Steve Plodhouse, were first promoted and then effectively found not guilty of anything, perish the thought. Nonce Finder General Tommy Watson got a job running UK Music and was shamefully elevated to the Lords by Starmer.
His gobby, imbecile mouthpiece James O'Brien, sometime 'Suits You, Sir' gentlemen's outfitter and failed Fleet Street journalist, continues to peddle his far-Left drivel on the wireless, darling of the gormless Guardianistas.
And the beat goes on.
Meanwhile, as I only learned last week, the inquiry into proper coppers who risked their lives working undercover grinds ever onwards and sideways.
I checked the cuttings and the first time I wrote about this was in 2014. That’s 11 long years ago. It was set up by Theresa May, then the worst Home Secretary we’ve ever had before becoming, arguably, our worst ever Prime Minister - a crowded field given that we’ve had Fizzy Lizzy, Dishy Rishi and Surkeir since then, and Grocer Heath, Major and Gordon before that. (I’m only excluding Boris, not because he’s a fellow Mail hack, but because he got Brexit done, after a fashion.)
While the scrambled-egg-on-their-collars top brass behind Midland slink off into well-remunerated retirement without censure, the brave cops who infiltrated serious crime gangs are still being pilloried, just like the bold soldiers who also put their lives on the line fighting IRA terrorists.
As I wrote at the time, having done the after-dinner turn at the annual jolly-up of the Retired Met Detectives, I got talking to one ex-cop who had secreted his way into the notorious Richardson gang, the South London version of the Kray Twins.
He’d been sent to flight training school in Florida, with the intention of becoming the pilot of Charlie Richardson’s private plane. After qualifying, he got the job and was the source of vital intelligence about the gang’s activities.
Imagine the courage of a policeman who is prepared to put himself in that position, knowing that at any moment his cover might be blown and he could end up wearing a coffee table on his head, with his unmentionables plugged directly into the mains.
Yet this was the kind of officer Mother Theresa thought was worthy of a public inquisition after allegations that some undercover cops had sex with unsuspecting women while living under an assumed identity.
Women often fall for dubious men who pretend to be millionaires, or airline pilots or friends of the Royal Family. That doesn’t mean they were assaulted, just duped. What were these officers supposed to do when an obliging madwoman in an anarchist group takes a fancy to them - make the old News of the World excuse and leave?
In the paranoid world of criminality, political subversion and terrorism, every action is scrutinised microscopically. One false move and the consequences can be fatal.
Yet May, whose most daring act was running through a cornfield, believed this was heinous activity which should be dragged through the quasi-courts. So here we are, more than a decade on - the political and criminal justice Establishment ignored the systematic rape of thousands of young girls by Pakistani men until political expediency forced our gutless PM to act this week yet continues to victimise the bravest of our brave coppers.
The Undercover Cops inquiry is forecast to cost us the thick end of £200 million. That’s Bloody Sunday territory.
You can bet your bottom wossname that the rape gang inquiry will be at least double that before it stumbles to its inevitable conclusion that nobody in authority was to blame.
By which time those responsible will be long gone.
And the criminals themselves - at least those who were eventually nicked - will have been released after serving about ten minutes of their sentences and will
have either legged it home to Pakistan or gone back to their minicabbing day jobs.
Funny name, Funny People
I know MI6 is practised in the art of deception. But, be honest, is the new head of the Funny People really, er, real?
We’re told that 47-year-old Blaise Metreweli (above) is about to become the next ‘C’. But her photo looks as if it was generated by AI6. And is that her real name? Or should it be Modesty Blaise, after the 1966 spy movie?
Blaise Metreweli sounds like someone out of a Bond film, or invented by dear old Freddie Forsyth after a couple of bottles of Rully.
Mediterranean Melt? Can I get fries with that? Or strawberry sauce and a Cadbury's Flake? Apparently not. It’s the new global warming scare.
On LBC, my old oppo Matthew Wright asked veteran meteorologist John Kettley if the recent hot spell was down to climate change.
'No,' said Kettley. 'It's called the British summer weather.'
Everybody back on the Jolly Boys charabanc . . .
Mediterranean Melts all round!