There HAS been a great deal of media chatter this past week about the situation of Ron Davies, who resigned as Britain's Welsh Secretary after a mysterious encounter with a man on Clapham Common, an alleged meal with his new friend and two other strangers in Brixton, and the subsequent theft at knifepoint by one of these gentlemen of Mr Davies' two wallets, mobile phone and car.
Mr Davies reported the theft, denied all allegations of gay sex, begged for consideration, berated the media and later told the House of Commons, rather oddly, how he was beaten by his father as a child. But he did not actually tell his fellow MPs what took place on Clapham Common, or what happened during the couple of hours before the theft.
Between that and the controversial "outing" of Labour grandee Mr Peter Mandelson, the media have since then been full of articles about the need for tolerance and understanding.
No one doubts the need for tolerance and understanding. As journalists we have to realise that any one of us, depending on background, genetic makeup, environmental factors, exposure to nuclear radiation or to over-protective mothers, could have found ourselves running up soggy, liberal, caring, out-reaching, socially inclusive 2,000-word articles for the Guardian, instead of, for example, producing heroic ground-breaking pieces of vicious satire for lesser journals.
Others might ask if a miserable childhood is sufficient excuse for entering politics, and for then making use of a highly abrasive manner (as Mr Davies is reputed to have) in order to claw one's way to high office. What am I saying? They will not only ask, but write about it at length. Indeed they already have.
As it happens, however, I have some sympathy with Ron "Two Wallets" Davies, having made a similar error of judgment as a young man some years ago - not on Clapham Common, but while on holiday at Pattaya Beach, in Thailand.
Experiencing difficulties while divesting myself of my scuba-diving gear one afternoon, I was befriended by a dusky young Nicaraguan lady, who kindly helped me to remove my air cylinder. In return, she then asked me to help her adjust her bikini straps, which naturally I consented to do. They were yellow, I recall.
Though she spoke little English, and I knew not a word of Spanish, I felt an instant attraction, and was quite charmed by the way she then took my hand, and refused to let go. Naively, and with mounting excitement, I thought I knew what to expect from then on. But I was wrong.
Bianca (for that was her name) then invited me to dinner, and a couple of bottles of wine, and a floor show, and rather a lot of pineapple cocktails, and later some brandy. All was going swimmingly, I thought, until she insisted on paying for the entire evening, and rather a large sum it was, too.
It was at this point I began to get concerned. However, by now we had met quite a few of her friends, and I realised it would be difficult for me to leave the company.
I found I was right. A few moments later, I tried to slip unnoticed out a side door, but one of Bianca's friends nabbed me, forced another giant pina colada into my hand and insisted I stay. I asked for a translation and he said, in perfect English, "We have become friends. It is not polite for you to leave the company". As you might guess, it all ended in my hotel room. Bianca tucked me into the single bed, insisted I eat the chocolate left on the pillow, wrote me a generous cheque to cover my time, cordially shook hands and departed into the night. Yes, I had been well and truly conned. This beautiful, ruthless woman was in the seedy business of buying companionship from innocent young men. While the embarrassment lingers on after all these years, I can nevertheless excuse myself on the ground of youthful naivety. But I would have expected more worldly wisdom from a man of Ron Davies' years.
