THE actions of rogue surgeon Ian Paterson, who performed countless unnecessary and damaging operations on women with (and sometimes without) breast cancer, have rightly shocked the nation - and the questions have come thick and fast in the wake of his convictions for wounding.

How could he have got away with it for so long? Why did no-one realise what he was doing? What were his bosses thinking? How did he keep getting jobs despite his history? And many, many more - not least, what on earth possessed him to do it?

Bosses at one of the hospitals where Paterson worked were accused of "weak and indecisive leadership" in a 2011 report by Sir Ian Kennedy; while junior colleagues have spoken of Paterson's bullying and abrasive manner.

Traumatised patients say they trusted him - because why wouldn't they? He was an eminent surgeon. He knew what was best for them and they didn't. Take those two things together - a weak bureaucracy at the top, and frightened, ill-informed patients at the bottom - and it is easier to see how someone like Paterson was able to continue his wicked work for so long.

Luckily for the public, rogue medics such as Paterson - whose victims are estimated to number into four figures - and Harold Shipman, who murdered hundreds of his patients, are of course very, very few. But the problems regarding cover-ups of bad practice are not restricted to criminal and "rogue" doctors, as we here in south Cumbria know only too well.

No industry or profession is without its incompetent and downright useless members. The medical profession is no exception to that - and yet all too often we, the largely unquestioning public, seem not to realise it. Put a stethoscope around someone's neck and we tend immediately and implicitly to trust that person, even though we may have absolutely no idea how good a doctor they may actually be.

Medical students aren't given their degrees in different classes - there are no thirds, 2:2s, 2:1s or firsts - they just qualify as doctors and we, their patients, have no idea whether they were the shining stars of their cohort or if they just about scraped though after goodness knows how many attempts. If I went to see a barrister, I would be able to find out what class of law degree he or she attained - and then make an informed choice about whether I wished to pay top dollar for their services. If I go to see a doctor I know nothing about them beyond where they studied.

Granted, doctors study at good universities and cannot get into the profession with a degree from a fourth division former poly; thus far medical degrees have not been diluted and dumbed down. But that doesn't alter the fact that some doctors are simply not up to the grade; and others, like the Patersons and Shipmans of this world, should never be allowed near a surgery once legitimate questions are raised about their behaviour and performance.

That Paterson was allowed to continue practising - and maiming countless women - years after complaints were raised about him reflects very badly indeed on the so-called guardians of the medical profession. In other professions and industries, if you're pretty useless or if you keep making serious errors, you get the sack. In the medical profession, however, how many doctors does one hear of being sacked for incompetence? Doctors, nurses and midwives who get struck off make national news - it's that rare. Ditto teachers.

Bad medics get away with incompetence because they are implicitly trusted and respected by society. You will never see doctors or nurses in any top 10 list of unpopular professions - those are the preserve of journalists, politicians, used car salesmen and estate agents. Doctors are not gods. And yet they are treated as such by too many of us. A good doctor - and there are, thankfully, many thousands of those - is a godsend.

A bad doctor with a God complex is a danger. A bad doctor with a God complex who is allowed to keep practising as a result of cover-ups and incompetence is a national scandal.

YOU know the general election is getting to you when you start dreaming about politicians. The other night Jeremy Corbyn, no less, took a starring role in my dreams. And not in a good way - not that I can imagine there being a good way to dream about Comrade Corbyn.

In my dream, Jeremy Corbyn and I were setting off on a holiday together; God only knows where but we were going in a convertible Cadillac. Thankfully, I woke up before Jeremy got the key in the ignition. Because, of all the politicians to imagine spending a holiday with, Jeremy Corbyn must be right down at the bottom of most people's lists. Glamorous it would not be.

Mr Corbyn appears so worthy, so joyless, that it is impossible to imagine him checking into a five-star luxury hotel, ordering up champagne from room service and tucking into Michelin-starred food every evening. I feel sure a holiday with Jeremy would tend more towards the Spartan. Rucksacks and cagoules would feature prominently, hostels or tents would be the level of accommodation; and the food would involve organic yak's milk and baked beans. And you can bet your bottom dollar booze wouldn't get a look in.

Maybe we should choose our politicians with a view to how much fun they'd be to go on holiday with. It'd liven up the election no end. On the other hand, we'd almost certainly end up with Boris Johnson as prime minister.

OH, the humanity! The suffering! Yes, I'm referring to the recent hummus crisis, which nearly brought the nation to its knees. Marks and Sparks and Sainsburys cleared their shelves of the chick pea-based dip last week, due to "taste issues", creating a national hummus shortage - and panic among middle-class shoppers.

It was a first world problem in all its pretentious glory, and a gift for headline writers who could let rip about double dip recessions and the like. Somehow, though, the hummus crisis didn't seem to affect the folk of Furness. There were no reports of people panic-buying tins of chick peas and jars of tahini in order to make their own; no storming of the aisles in Aldi to see if there was a cut-price version. No, the hummus crisis passed off in these parts without incident, leaving me wondering what sort of food shortage would bring the area to its knees.

Obviously, if McDonalds decided to shut up shop round here there'd be rioting in the streets (I would be in like Flynn myself); or if Green's announced there would be no more meat and potato pies; or if the peninsula were suddenly to become a Haribo-free wasteland.

On balance, though, I suspect the nearest we could come to the great hummus crisis would be if our local chippies announced a mushy pea shortage. Now that would truly be a disaster. People of Furness, get praying...