IT is tough being a maverick detective in an age where every schtick seems to have been taken. From Cagney and Lacey and Taggart to Ironside, Rebus, and Life on Mars the viewer has seen it all: drinking, gambling, time travel, being Belgian, an obsession with crosswords, even having a partner who is a ghost (all hail Randall and Hopkirk).

Still, an enterprising writer can still find a way in if they look hard enough. Ladies, gentlemen, and TV commissioning editors, we give you Canna: Isle of Evil. Here is the pitch.

“Set on the Hebridean isle of Canna, only four miles long, this is the story of Morag Serpico, a former NYPD detective now retired to her ancestral home of Scotland. Shortly after the former maverick cop arrived on her little piece of paradise, a daring theft of teabags and bobble hats took place at the community store. Now, just three years later, a 7ft claymore has gone missing from the local museum. Morag Serpico thought she was done with crime … BUT CRIME WASN’T DONE WITH HER.”

I’m thinking at least two series, with Kelly Macdonald in the lead. Sure, I can foresee some objections, largely having to do with not very much in the way of “evil” happening, but when not fighting crime Morag could busy herself being a midwife and running the village shop. She could also have a “will they won’t they” love interest in McPoldark, an artisan potter who has to work topless all the time on account of it being so hot with the kiln and everything.

Like all the best ideas, Canna: Isle of Evil is based on the truth. The community store was indeed stripped of its few goods in 2015 and police are now investigating the missing sword. Officers have been keen to reassure the public that the island is not turning into 1970s New York. “Incidents like this are extremely unusual in the Small Isles,” said Constable Neil Davies, hanging on to his hat in case some passing gang banger whipped it off his head.

Canna is not the only unusual place to appear on crime’s radar this week. Donald Trump has been having a busy old time on the outraging humanity front, what with putting weans in cages at the US-Mexico border. Top flight operator that he is, the US president has still found the time to insult Canadians, alleging that they are coming into the US, buying shoes, scuffing them up and wearing them home to avoid tariffs on new goods. Canadians have reacted to the slur by starting a #buycanada campaign.

There is something irresistible about tales of normally good folk coming into contact with naughtiness. The booze-laden SS Politician running aground on Eriskay in 1941 became the basis for the novel Whisky Galore, one classic film and another mirthless remake. At the centre of the den of iniquity in The Ladykillers, another Ealing Studios classic, there is a sweet, innocent, little old lady, Mrs Wilberforce.

The thieves in the Oceans films are essentially good guys (and in the current adaptation, gals), and the original redistributor of wealth from rich to poor was the folk hero Robin Hood.

Breaking the law can be seen as the ultimate thumbing of the nose at the Establishment. Sticking it to “the man” is a way of getting one back for the little people. We love a rascal. With one crucial proviso, though: no one should get hurt and the good shall not suffer loss. In fiction or in fact, that is not funny.

Crime, in reality, is a morally bankrupt affair. Practised by the stupid and the inadequate, it has genuine victims, usually the weakest and most vulnerable in society. No amount of humour or japes can cover up that stink.

Maverick detectives and happy go lucky criminals are firmly products of fiction because they would not last a minute in reality. Imagine what Watchdog would do with Lovejoy, the loveably rogue antiques trader (Nice Bloke Matt to Lovejoy: “You’re SCUM, admit it mate.”) Hamish Macbeth would have been prosecuted for animal cruelty for running that little Westie up and down hills all day. As for Taggart, thank the Lord the original inspector is not around to witness the goings on at Police Scotland.

The good folk of Canna can probably rest easy. Two incidents in the space of three years seems manageable to those of us in the big cities.

It will probably turn out that someone has taken the claymore home to clean and forgotten to leave a note. As for the looting of the community store, mark that one down to tourists playing pranks and move on. Do not let crime embitter you. Trust in the innate propensity of people to do the right thing given a chance. Just in case, get a lock on that museum.

EVERY year at this time I get to play at being a commuter on the Glasgow to Edinburgh rail service. Back and forth I go to the film festival, just another face in the travelling crowd.
I imagine it’s a bit like being an undercover police officer without the bother of marrying someone under false pretences.
After a week of being a commuter I would like to make the following announcements.
Bing bong! Kudos to you hardy souls for taking the cancellations and delays on the chin. Many of you look like you want to drop to your knees and weep as it happens yet again, but you keep on keeping on.
Bing bong! Respect, too, for putting up with toytown trains not big enough to meet demand, meaning many folk getting on after Queen Street and Waverley have to stand. 
Bing bong! Well done for paying London prices if you need to use the loos at Queen Street, even though the place has been a building site for yonks.
Finally, remember it could always be worse. The Fringe starts soon.

SINCE David Dimbleby said he was leaving Question Time there has been a lot of none too subtle jockeying for position among those who fancy the gig.
At least Samira Ahmed was upfront about it when she declared on Twitter that she was very well qualified for the job and would like to be seriously considered. 
The rest have been speaking to agents, taking soundings, and, having their tea leaves read. All the usual BBC shenanigans whenever there is a top job going.
It’s all terribly unseemly. How much more civilised if we simply scrapped the next series of Britain’s Got Talent and use the format to find a new QT host instead. All the usual features would be present: mass auditions, buzzing the boring ones off, making them compete with each other for the biggest sob stories (“I’ll never forget the day my budgie died just seven hours before I had to read the news off an autocue…”).
As to who would win such a meeja gladiatorial clash, I can see it coming down to the Kirstys (Wark and Young) versus Victoria Derbyshire. Then the job will go to a man.