Lord Rennard doesn’t need an inquiry. He needs a swift kick to the shin

I was seated at a rather stiff and formal BBC dinner a dozen or so years back, one of those ghastly occasions upon which the boss class attempt, painfully, to commune with the corporation untermenschen over noisette of chicken, or something similar. There were perhaps 15 of us, drawn from various levels of the BBC strata, with the then head of news — and now director-general — Tony Hall seated somewhere democratically in the middle. Along from me was a lowly but attractive female production assistant whose dining was interrupted by an unwelcome hand snaking along her inner thigh. The errant hand belonged to the well-lubricated reporter on her immediate left. The young woman took a sip of wine and said to the transgressive journalist, just loud enough for me to hear: ‘Try to touch my clunge one more time and I’m telling Tony.’ Reader, the invasive behaviour ceased forthwith, I was reliably informed.