The least surprising bumshell of the week has been that a gazillionaire has been outed as a handsy turd who abused his position to exploit others.

Who’d have thunk it?

Those who should be on trial now are the gang slithering out of the woodwork to tell us that they knew about it all along.

They’re the enablers.

Of course, in the chaos of modern times, they’re the supporters of all  those awful bandwagon jumpers standing erect in line to wolf down a phat slice of compo.

It’s essentially game on for the risk-free legal joyride on the coattails of the burgeoning estate of a bloke who can’t answer back.

Now I come to think of it, I seem to recall that he split my difference on a few occasions without my consent.

That’s gotta be worth a few grand and a Fulham season ticket. Certainly more than the 10p he pressed into my bum crack with a terse instruction to phone my mum to let her know I’d be late home that night.

It sounds absurd, but that yarn is infinitely more credible than the current plethora of tawdry tales of a greasy index from behind a pyramid of Fortnum & Mason hampers.

But back to the question of the alleged tompumpery. If the perv in question had been the dirty old mad down the road, all these whimpering hoes would have just put it down to experience.

But as it’s  Mohammad Al-Fingered, it’s open season on another corpse with bottomless pockets.

Never has #metoo been more apt.

I’ll bet Free Gear Keir is gagging to capitalise on the vote-garnering momentum of a nonce hunt like this.

For my part, I’d have preferred him to have done so during his time as the DPP, but to be fair to him he was spending most of his time not prosecuting Jimmy Savile.

Not that we can say that, mind. You know how hurty words have now surpassed most serious offences on the books.

We’ll end up with a lengthier sentence than if we’d cable-tied and drilled those slappers ourselves.