MORE THAN a third of young women claim they have been sexually assaulted after getting drunk. Well excuse me, but how would they know?

If the respondents to this survey were representative of some of the addled specimens on view in any market town High Street on a Friday night, it’s remarkable that they can remember their names, never mind being mauled by a fellow inebriate.

And where do they draw the line between sexual assault and drunken fumbling? If they’re willing to engage in a spot of back-alley rutting with some anonymous bloke as long as the act isn’t vigorous enough to make them drop their chips, is that assault?

What these girls are really reporting is not assault but regret. Just because they can’t control themselves after half a dozen Bacardi Breezers, that’s no reason to put the blame firmly on the male of the species.

Anyway, I’ve seen the way they dress. Most of them are just asking for it.

A WOMAN called Debbie Lawson, a lance corporal in Mr Blah’s Turkey Army, has decreed that the adoring familes of newborn babies are no longer allowed to “fawn and coo” over them.

Her contention is that babies are not babies at all but are “little people with the same rights as you and me” and consequently should be accorded the same privacy as any other NHS patient. The mind truly boggles.

Ms Lawson, who looks from her picture to be a hard line, lentil-eating Guardianista (complete with sensible shoes, if you know what I mean) holds the grandious title of neo-natal manager at Calderdale Royal Hospital in Halifax. I think that means she’s a senior nurse.

We now wait the first prosecution and subsequent jailing of someone who’s committed the heinous crime of “looking at a baby”. That’s if the cells aren’t already full of tax-dodging pensioners, of course.

ONCE AGAIN we poor men are the victims of ridicule on national TV as This Morning with Philip and Fearn (size 16 my arse) televises the first live public vasectomy.

I ask only this: when will they be televising the first live hysterectomy?

ONE SADLY becomes accustomed to one’s childhood heroes being exposed as mere charlatans, unworthy of hero worship. But today I witnessed a sight so shocking that I nearly spilt my morning mug of Buckfast and Vimto.

There, displayed shamelessly across the 48-inch plasma screen, was Trumpton’s famous Windy Miller, selling his soul in a Quaker Oats advert. Whatever happened to integrity?

O The views of Mr Beelzebub are purely personal and do not necessarily reflect the opinions of the Editor or staff of this website, of anyone who voted Liverpool’s Champions League victory as a greater TV moment than the fall of the Berlin Wall, of anyone who didn’t know that Ed was the father of Emma’s baby, or of anyone who can’t contain their excitement at the news that Carole Vorderman is going to host a Sudoku television programme. It’s just a crossword without clues, you numbskulls. A child could do it. Albeit not one educated in this country.