You don’t need to be Jack Regan to know that nicking street dealers doesn’t quash a drug epidemic.

That’s picking the low-hanging fruit and boosting arrest statistics, Guv’nor.

Lazy coppering provides the flagging flatfoots with a rare opportunity to appear remotely competent at the expense of UK society dropping one notch to a par with 1973 Botswana.

In the current *protest/riot/terrorist debacle (delete in accordance with the specific liability you would like to evade), professional policing (ha ha) seems to be ironically filling the gap created by the dearth in immigrant farm workers.

As for low-hanging fruit, if Romanians can no longer be arsed to pick it, some bottom-feeding Chief Super, who couldn’t discern a hooker from a hookah, will probably jizz upwards onto his Motorola at the mere prospect of claiming the collar of some cidered-up sexagenarian up for a laugh in the town centre.

After all, picking pockets is more lucrative and has guaranteed immunity, so the fruit can drop like the balls of Jimmy Savile’s penthouse boy butlers, for all our Bucharest bunco boys are bothered.

They never nicked him either, by the way.

I wonder why not? I think we all know.

But back to the current cop cosplay, and let’s face it – hoovering up a few hundred Neanderthals brazenly self-identifying on camera footage served up on a plate by the nations’s media outlets is hardly top-notch police work.

Nor is banging out some court orders to identify some shit-kicking keyboard warriors for, ahem, saying stuff.

Yeah, words matter, but a Molotov with a Bangladeshi infant cripple attached, hurtling through a plate glass window, probably ticks more boxes on the urgency-importance scale that some weeb posting that immigrants are cunts.

You would have hoped that the finest detective brains in the UK would have been outsmarting the shadowy figures masterminding the current disorder and killing it at source.

The problem is that the finest detective brains in the UK are not serving police officers, but just ordinary Joes who can spot a wrong’un at ten paces without having to spend countless afternoons hardening their arteries in Krispy Kreme on the expenses account.

As the protesters might say, ‘wake up and smell the Kaffir’.

Jesus, that weak witticism would probably get you nicked faster that delivering a cheeky Dirty Sanchez on an Eritrean pre-teen in the ball pit at soft play.

It stinks worse than my fingers, but that is is the world we live in.

You’d be safer donning a Sport Direct Slazenger polo, banging an Iceland trolley into Greggs, and staggering out with half a dozen vegan sausage rolls down your Calvo Georgini boxers.

And you’d still have more credibility than our corrupt, careerist cops.