Jimmy Tarbuck choked back tears as he told ITV’s Loose Women about his experience of being arrested by 14 policeman — 14 to nick an elderly comedian! — over allegations of assault of a child in the Sixties.

Now exonerated, Tarbuck, 75, is trying to rebuild his life. As is the DJ Paul Gambaccini, who last week gave an impassioned account of his own arrest and subsequent year of hell on police bail as part of Operation Yewtree.

Both men reminded me of a genial old gent I used to know, Alistair McAlpine, one time adviser to Margaret Thatcher.

Comedian Jimmy Tarbuck is pictured leaving the ITV studios following a guest appearance on Loose Women

He was a kind, intelligent man who had hoped to spend his retirement running a guest house in Southern Italy with his glamorous young wife, Athena.

Instead, at the age of 70, he found himself thrust into the public eye in the cruellest of circumstances.

He was accused on Twitter and elsewhere of being involved in claims of historic sex abuse at a children’s home in North Wales.

A witness in the case later explained that they had mistaken him for someone else. But not before various malicious elements, including Sally Bercow, the wife of the Commons Speaker, had plunged him into a Kafka-esque nightmare by bandying his name around on Twitter.

Despite ill-health, McAlpine came out fighting, vehemently denying the claims and successfully suing his detractors.

He died a year later — an appalling tragedy.

Of course, no two cases are ever the same. But what all three men have in common is this: they were victims of the new ‘there’s no smoke without fire’ style of justice.

And they’re not the only ones. In no particular order: William Roache, 83, Jim Davidson, 61, Sir Cliff Richard, 74, the late Conservative Prime Minister, Ted Heath, top soldier Lord Bramall, now 91, the late Leon Brittan, former heads of MI5 and MI6 and former Tory MP Harvey Proctor, 68.

All, one way or another, were accused of the foullest of crimes by anonymous ‘victims’, whose veracity sometimes appears to have been subject to about as much scrutiny as a participant on the Jeremy Kyle show.

It’s all because of Jimmy Savile, of course. Having failed spectacularly — along with the BBC — to deal with one genuine pervert, the authorities are now engaged in a frantic game of catch-up. But however misguided these arrests may or may not be, the real problem here is not the police; it’s the question of anonymity which, at the moment, is automatically granted to the accuser — but not the accused.

Coleen Nolan, left, comforts Jimmy Tarbuck, right, on ITV lunchtime show Loose Women

Right now, there is nothing to stop me walking into a police station and accusing pretty much anyone of sexual assault.

It could be utterly bogus — or malicious — and the police would not only have an obligation to protect my identity, but also a duty to investigate my claim.

And, as Scotland Yard admitted in a statement this week, ‘we start from a position of believing the victim’.

Moreover, in the absence of any physical evidence — for example, in the case of historical accusations — the likelihood is that the name of my alleged attacker would be made public in order to encourage any other victims to come forward.

That’s what happened to Tarby and Cliff — and you can’t help wondering: who’s the real victim here? The one hiding behind the protection of the law; or the poor man having his reputation and a lifetime’s work trashed?

Anonymity before charge in cases of sexual assault ought to be as much a basic human right as the protection of the identity of sex attack victims.

Otherwise we’re living in a world where, through spite or malice or for political gain, innocent lives can be ruined.

That might pass for justice on Twitter, but it’s not the mark of a civilised society.

Susanna Reid wears a red dress to interview David Beckham, complains of being hot — and then suggests she should be wearing his T-shirt. It’s not exactly David Dimbleby, is it?

A warm welcome for IS

According to new research from King’s College London, significant numbers of Islamic State recruits are deserting the organisation after discovering that the job description — cars, luxury goods, an all-you-can-eat virgin buffet — does not match the reality. Thick as well as vicious — what a uniquely unpleasant combination.

I suppose they’ll be expecting the UK to welcome them back with open arms now. And knowing the way this country works, we’ll probably be stupid enough to do so.

The fact that Jackie Collins kept her breast cancer secret for six years, revealing it to her sister, Joan, only at the very end, just shows what a class act she really was. Underneath all that literary heavy petting was a woman who clearly understood the true meaning of dignity.

Joanne Froggatt Mandatory at the 67th Annual Primetime Emmy Awards

Looking simultaneously glamorous and demure —not an easy trick to pull off, but she manages it — Joanne Froggatt made her last Downton appearance at the Emmys this weekend. After years dressing down to play Anna Bates, everyone’s favourite lady’s maid, she’s vowed to never again wear black.

Good for her. If I looked like this, I’d make a bonfire of all my black sacks, too.

Oh, do put her down!

Glad to see Topshop boss Sir Philip Green stepping up to the plate at London Fashion Week for some obligatory air-kissing with Prince Harry’s old squeeze, Cressida Bonas.

Although, judging by the pictures, it was more of a head-lock. Presumably she got paid extra for that?

Cressida Bonas attends the Topshop Unique show during London Fashion Week

My absolute favourite show at the moment is BBC2’s Special Forces Ultimate Hell Week.

If you haven’t watched it, do: it’s gripping. A group of 29 men and women come face to face with army chiefs from around the world in a genuinely gruelling endurance test.

The latest episode saw them go something like 18 hours without food or sleep, survive a gas attack, build a camp behind enemy lines, be yelled at by a psychotic Australian — and remain standing.

I have no idea whether it’s anything like what real recruits have to endure — but if it is, I have even more respect for the Army than before.

Nutella, the hazelnut spread favoured by millions of children, has caused havoc among fans by revealing that the English pronunciation — ‘nuh-te-lluh’ is all wrong.

It should be ‘noo-tell-ah’, of course. I know this from my childhood in Italy; and it’s not the only thing non-Italian speakers get wrong.

There’s no such thing as a ‘panini’, for example; it’s just the plural for ‘sandwich’. If anything it should be ‘panino’, which is the singular.

And ‘latte’ is nothing to do with coffee; it’s just the Italian for milk.

But the thing that really drives me — well, nutella — is the pronunciation of bruschetta as ‘brushetta’. It’s ‘brusketta’.

No need to scramble, ladies ...

You can almost hear the cheesy twang of Berlin’s You Take My Breath Away Top Gun soundtrack as a green jumpsuit hoves into view. But then the heat haze clears and . . . oh. It’s his brother. Somehow not quite the same as Harry the hairy hottie in his flying gear.

'You can almost hear the cheesy twang of Berlin’s You Take My Breath Away Top Gun soundtrack as a green jumpsuit hoves into view'

I don’t doubt that nearly half of children are addicted to their screens, but parents are just as bad.

‘Honestly,’ said my daughter the other evening as she came in to say goodnight.

‘Look at you two: watching telly, drinking wine, both glued to your laptops.’

What can I say? Guilty as charged.

I know Jamie Oliver is meant to be marvellous and everything, but I’m finding this new healthy incarnation of the Naked Chef even more irritating than the original version.