David T.C. Davies is so unremarkable a person that he cannot even manage the distinction of being the Member of Parliament whose status as such was the greatest national embarrassment.
That accolade goes to Jess Phillips.
She is at it again today, cantering her hobbyhorse that the acquittal of Ched Evans proves that the law itself is wrong.
Phillips and Evans richly deserve each other. They would make a lovely couple.
Of course sexual history is pertinent to whether or not a person may or may not have consented to sex at all. Never mind consented to exactly the same startling variation on the theme, as was the case here.
If anything, the ban on the admission of such basic testimony under almost all circumstances raises serious questions about a great many convictions in the last 13 years.
Had the whole truth been given in evidence, then how different might the verdicts have been?
But Phillips is backed in this, with truly jaw-dropping shamelessness, by Harriet Harman.
Harman wrote the current law, and she railroaded it through a Parliament as supine on this in 2003 as it was on the Iraq War in the same year.
Of course, what she really wanted, and what she will not rest until she gets, were "trials" without juries. Heard only by "specialist" judges who would be bound to convict, due to having had "the training".
Thus, with a little bit of decoration, mere accusation would become conviction. Especially since the burden of proof would also have been reversed.
Phillips's class war position in this is the same as Harman's.
Phillips grew up between two houses, one of them in France, and her mother ran both the local NHS Trust and an events company that that Trust engaged. That company employed young Jess.
Harman is fairly unlikely to contest the 2020 General Election. But Phillips intends to be in Parliament for 30 or 40 years yet. Her removal at the ballot box is now absolutely imperative.
She owes her elevation to another of Harman's pet projects, the system of all-women shortlists.
Similarly, the application of that device to this constituency is certain to produce one or the other of two kinds of Labour candidate.
Most probably, an upper-middle-class girl out of the typing pool who had never previously set foot here.
Or, as an outside chance, an ageing 1970s feminist caricature who perfectly embodied that most abiding legacy of Thatcherism, the transfer of power to such types from and over working-class men.
Of course, Neil Fleming, who will by then be back from London with his tail between his legs (a work in progress, so to speak), could always declare himself to be a woman for this purpose.
No one would find that remotely difficult to believe. There really ought to be one woman in his relationship, and he is the only credible candidate for the position.
To put matters at their mildest, beating any of those would hold no terrors for me.