In a development that will shock precisely no one who has witnessed the slow-motion train wreck of the Epstein affair, a survivor has testified to US lawmakers that she was assaulted while under the watchful gaze of a system supposedly designed to protect her. The woman, whose name you won't remember because the media has already moved on to hunt for the next trending hashtag, told a hushed committee room that she was assaulted by a man who should by all rights have been attempting to pick his teeth with a toothpick in a maximum-security canteen. Instead, he was apparently free to saunter about under house arrest, a system that has all the security of a wet paper bag in a hurricane.

House arrest, that glorious institution where the state gives a man an electronic tag and then wanders off to the pub on the assumption that he will respect the privilege of not having his face rubbed into the gravel of a prison yard. The survivor's account is a damning indictment of a justice system that treats the powerful with velvet gloves and the vulnerable with asbestos knuckledusters. One can almost hear the collective shrugging from every courthouse in America.

The hearing was a masterclass in performative outrage. Lawmakers, who have the moral courage of a chocolate teapot, expressed their 'shock' and 'disgust' at the revelations. They promised swift action, which in political parlance means they will form a committee, issue a report, and then promptly forget about it when the news cycle moves on to something less uncomfortable, like a celebrity's pet tortoise.

Meanwhile, the survivor sits in a room, a victim twice over: once by the initial assault, and again by a system that treats her testimony like a mild inconvenience. The spectre of Epstein haunts these proceedings like a malevolent ghost in an expensive suit. His death, officially ruled a suicide but widely regarded as a masterpiece of prison security incompetence, has ensured that the public will never get the full story. It is a story that involves hedge funds, private islands, and the kind of people who ordain themselves the moral guardians of society while their hands are deep in the cookie jar of criminality.

One cannot help but wonder how many other survivors are out there, their stories buried under the weight of legal fees and the suffocating blanket of 'settled out of court'. The Justice Department, that august body that has all the vigour of a sloth on Valium, has yet to provide answers that satisfy anyone with a functioning brainstem. They have become a byword for ineptitude: the Keystone Kops of the federal government.

As the hearing closed, the lawmakers filed out, their faces set in expressions of grim determination. They will go back to their offices, send a few sternly worded letters, and then enjoy a three-martini lunch. The survivor will go back to her life, a life forever shadowed by the actions of a dead man and his network of accomplices, a network that has all the integrity of a corrupt fruit machine.

And so the circus continues. The cameras will move on, the pundits will find new scandals to dissect, and the survivors will be left to pick up the pieces of a broken system that treats justice like an inconvenient hobby. The only thing missing from this tragedy is a laugh track. But don't worry, the universe is providing that: it's the sound of every corrupt official sleeping soundly in their bed tonight.

Biff Thistlethwaite, signing off. If you need me, I'll be in the pub, drowning my sorrows in a gin that tastes like regret and smells like the fresh hell of the news cycle.