Back in the heyday of the old Colony Room Club, we had our own version of Nigel Evans; an erudite QC of otherwise impeccable manners and rare good humour who was a serial thigh-pincher. One would be in deep inebriated conversation when a sharp and painful nip to the thighs or buttocks would alert you to his presence. Engaging him affably in talk didn't work; he'd sneak in further nips whenever he could get a hand within range. It was pointless trying to shame him with an accusation of deviancy or perversion; they were practically compulsory qualities in that small green place, and only a firm "look, will you fecking stop that" (sometimes) caused him to seek new thighs to pinch.Oh, and it was only blokes that he targeted; the girls were all quite safe. Despite the bruising, I liked him - he was good value.
Those of us from the Gene Hunt generation I suppose are either more tolerant or more forgiving of the sort of behaviour that has since become classified as 'inappropriate touching'. There was a lot of it about in the 70s and 80s, and in the 90s and oughties it just came indoors. And it wasn't just a post-1968 thing either; our parents' generation even had a code, NSIT (Not Safe in Taxis), to annotate shared address-books. The combination of testosterone and alcohol will generally always produce the same effect, and we should hardly be surprised if the current generation, constrained by fifty weeks a year of post-feminist puritanism, go wild for two weeks in Aya Napa or Ibiza.
The joyless politically correct little puritans at the CPS may well have destroyed Evans' life, and besmirched the reputations of other figures in the public eye in what is increasingly looking like a vindictive and spiteful witch-hunt against any trace of 'Life on Mars' left in public life, but I think they have misread public opinion. Few juries will happily convict gropers, and that is now the danger; having been thwarted by the justice system, these zealots will now seek other ways of pursuing their agenda.