What will it take, do you suppose, to convince a small but voluble sector of public opinion that Diana, Princess of Wales was killed in a horribly unfortunate car accident in a Paris underpass – rather than assassinated by MI6’s squadron of killer bees released from their hive personally by the malign Prince Philip? Everything and nothing, one assumes. Certainly not the inquest chaired by Lord Justice Scott Baker (who took over when Dame Elizabeth Butler-Sloss decided she was too bored or bemused to continue with the whole shebang, back in April this year).

No matter what conclusion this inquest reaches, there will still be Arab websites insisting that Diana was about to convert to Islam, wear a copious veil and blow herself up in front of some startled corgis on the anniversary of Edward VIII’s abdication. Or had been secretly carrying the love child of the hook-handed Muslim cleric Abu Hamza, or some prop-forward from the England rugby first XV, or Elton John, or all three.

There seems to be an enormous appetite for this, beyond the excitable Islamic world, beyond even the bereaved and – he feels – slighted figure of Mohamed al-Fayed, father of Diana’s, uh, “close friend” Dodi. But it is a thirst which will never be slaked. “Everything you tell us we will disbelieve,” the doubters insist, perversely, as they demand to be told more stuff. It doesn’t matter how transparent and exhaustive the official procedure, it will still not be believed.

We are now in the second decade of the who-really-killed-Diana? industry and there is no let-up, no remission. Partly it is the press, which remembers that a front-page Diana could put half a million on sales and hopes that the fading image of her ghost does likewise. But there is an appetite, too, among a public which is determined to trust nobody and nothing and cannot reconcile itself to the chilling, aimless blade of accidental death. Misfortune can’t be the answer; there has to be something more.

So far, if you include the current inquest, the cost of feeding this yearning is something in the region of £10m, if you include the £3.7m of Operation Paget, run last year by Lord Stevens. If Scott Baker’s inquest does not reveal anything revelatory – merely concludes something like “the poor woman was killed in an unfortunate car crash and we have no evidence to suppose that the Duke of Edinburgh was at the wheel of that white Fiat Uno” – then there is likely to be another police inquiry. Then another one – for 500 years, like those two princes in the Tower of London.

The public, when it smells a rat, should be indulged for a while but not endlessly – even if the whole thing is, as some have cruelly suggested, what she would have wanted.

In the end, when it was demanded that the BBC sack someone very senior, they closed ranks and sacked the outsider – Peter Fincham, the controller of BBC1. He has been at the corporation for a little over two years. It may be the right decision. Certainly it would have been kind – and wise – of Mr Fincham to have shared with us the knowledge that RDF’s trailer for that fatuous film about the Queen was fraudulent at the time, rather than several days later. He certainly knew the fact very early on – Stephen Lambert, the creative director of RDF, warned him – but perhaps he crossed his fingers and hoped it would all blow over.

That’s the problem with the BBC, though, as any long-term staffer could have told him; stuff never blows over. It just gets worse and worse. The press harries away with glee, and over at TV Centre the terrified top brass congregate for long, panic-stricken meetings over biscuits and stale coffee and deliberate how they can extricate the corporation from the mess while retaining their own jobs. Sometimes they fail to hold their nerve and act precipitously, but not on this occasion.

It’s a pity for Fincham, but sacking the boss of BBC1 will prove a more effective means of persuading the corporation’s staff that it’s usually better to tell the truth than sending them all on a two-day course to teach them right from wrong.

Why so upfront with the PR?

Apress release arrives from some plastic surgeons. It says: “Transform Cosmetic Surgery Group is delighted to announce that Love Island beauty [sic] Bianca Gascoigne will be having a breast reaugmentation at its Heath hospital clinic in London on Tuesday October 2.” Well, I shall have to hurry along. Wouldn’t want to miss that.

But what does a re-augmentation mean? That she’s already had some stuff nailed to her chest and now wants even more? Also, I was worried about the use of the word “breast” as opposed to “breasts”. Was she only having one hacked about? Maybe it’s a buy-one-get-one-free deal, like the supermarkets do with dog food. Or perhaps Bianca is having a third breast added, either subtly embedded between the other two or proudly jutting out from her forehead and which, in chilly weather, will resemble a dalek’s antennae. It’s a lovely thought.

One of these days a talented actress and singer like Bianca will really splash out and have a whole rack of 10 or 12 breasts stapled to her thorax from neck to hip, like you see on sows, giving her a definite edge over her rivals Jordan, Jodie Marsh, Danielle Lloyd etc. Until that day, spare us the press releases.

All Marxists are equally dim, Terry included

There are so few Marxists left in the world that we need a programme to preserve them so that our grandchildren might be able to gaze upon their snaggly beards, furrowed brows and (often) automatic weapons. A few wild creatures roam the jungles of South America but in Europe, where Marxists originated, they are now to be found only in captivity, working in the BBC or our universities. The literary critic Terry Eagleton is our most famous Marxist, our AnAn. Attempts have been made in the past to get him to breed – perhaps with the economist Lord Desai, a gift from the Indian government 40 years ago. But no luck so far – they are famously querulous beasts.

Eagleton is still fun to watch. Last week he howled abuse at Martin Amis for the novelist’s antiIslamist tendencies. One of the wonderful things about Marxists is that they will cheerfully support an ideology, Islamism, which runs counter to every principle espoused by Karl Marx, just for the hell of it. Logic was never really their strong point. Which is why there are so few left.

I suppose the residents of Leighton Buzzard needed something to cheer themselves up. Something to alleviate the terrible gloom of being stuck, in perpetuity, exactly half way between Milton Keynes and Luton – and thus being damned whichever way they turn.

So to make them feel a little better, the local council bunged up the Christmas lights in the high street on September 24 this year, while there were still blackberries in the hedgerows and before the swallows had left for Africa, or wherever it is swallows go. Dunstable, maybe. Anyway, the assistant town clerk, Barry Wardle, thinks the lights should be up all year round. Leighton Buzzard: where it really is Christmas every day. Rejoice.

Times Recommends

• There's no future for prophets of doom
• New Labour family seethes with hatred
• Shallow, fake... Palin's beyond parody