Here we go again, a complete non-story that’s getting people wound up.

If you’re not from the UK, you’ll not have heard of John Whittingdale. Even if you are from the UK, you may well not have heard of him until yesterday, when the shit hit his fan.

He’s the Culture Secretary, which means he gets paid a lot for doing not much. Any road up, back in 2014, he met a woman on, a dating site where truckers from Darlington pretend to be London property magnates to snare raven-haired beauties who aren’t from where they claim either.

Anyway, he hooked up with this woman. So far, so ho-hum. However, it turns out that ‘hooked up’ is an apposite phrase. Unbeknownst to Mr Whittingdale, the woman’s day job was as a sex worker, and a much in demand dominatrix.

Well, so what? A girl has to earn a living, right? The Honourable Mr Whittingdale finished the relationship as soon as he found out, which only happened when some wacko tried to sell him out to the tabloid press. All in all a lot of fuss about nothing.

Wrong. As Culture Secretary, he’s in charge of press regulation in the wake of the Leveson enquiry. It transpires that four newspapers knew about his sorry tale, and chose not to publish. As sure as night follows day, the rabid loonies of both the right and the left popped up claiming he leaned on the papers to keep things hushed up.

The papers deny this, as indeed does Mr Whittingdale, but the mob is still baying for blood, yelling about how the story should have been put out as being in the public interest.

In the public interest? Really? How so? Some rather sad, rather overweight, middle aged bloke made a bit of an arse of himself. He wasn’t the first, and he won’t be the last, and most people don’t give a hoot. This is another one of those constructed uproars beloved of the lunatic fringe.

Meanwhile, the tabloids are fighting a superinjunction that prevents them from naming some celeb who, while espousing with his wife importance of family values, has been found to be having the occasional affair and even a gleesome threesome. I don’t care who it is, but no doubt five minutes on the internet would tell me.

What I do care about is the whole iniquitous idea of superinjunctions.