Ronan Farrow, Chief Inspector of the Sex Police
24th September 2018
Thirty five years ago, Ronan Farrow got drunk at college, went to a party, and cosied up to a woman he wasn’t married to. How do I know? A woman at the same party thinks she might remember the party, isn’t sure Farrow was there, can’t quite remember what he did (or didn’t) do, but, on the advice of her lawyer and the yellow press, she understands that accusing him now might 1) advance her career and 2) might damage Farrow, whose views she doesn’t like.
In the light of this accusation from someone he never met, Farrow was relieved from his beat poring over other people’s sex lives at The New Yorker, the literary sewer that used to be a magazine. Titters and tongue-clucking all around as the panting masses wait for the next witch to be hauled out, publicly humiliated, and dispensed with. Wot larks.