You might think I shouldn't waste my sympathy on those who bring their misfortunes on their on themselves.

But it's not as if sympathy is a finite resource, and if we can't feel sorry for people who deserve their misfortune, where would that leave our appreciation of Shakespeare's tragedies or, to pick another example, political panel shows in which MPs face angry questions regarding their expenses.

There's always schadenfreude. But the trouble with enjoying the spectacle of someone getting their comeuppance is that, while you might not have exploited a dodgy expenses system for personal gain, you can't say for sure that you'd never be corrupted in some way, given enough power.

I hope those of you who thought Nick Griffin got an uncommonly bumpy ride on Question Time caught the programme the following week when Jacqui Smith faced questions about her second home.

Mrs Smith was found to be in breach of Commons rules after designating her family home as her second home for expenses purposes, while listing a room at her sister's London house where she lodged as her main home.
She must have known this was wrong, said one audience member, so how could she have done it?

To which Jacqui Smith had no satisfactory answer.

Even if she'd wanted to, she could hardly have said that we all know how it's possible to do wrong even as we know we're doing it.
Mrs Smith has apologised to the Commons, as she reminded the audience.
But saying sorry after being ordered to do so, and appearing to be genuinely sorry are not the same thing.

There's a reason that sorry is the hardest word, especially in politics.
Politicians inhabit an alternative reality in which they all have confidence in their own actions.

To express self-doubt, even in the retrospective form of an apology, is to give priceless ammunition to their enemies.

So while we might want to hear this from Jacqui Smith: "I'm so sorry everyone. I can't believe I was so stupid and greedy."

What we get instead is a rehearsed speech about rebuilding trust.

Similarly, when Gordon Brown is asked if he is the best man to take Labour into the next election, I find myself wishing he'd say: "Who knows? I can't seem to do anything right these days. David – or even Ed - Miliband might do better, but I've wanted this all my life and I'm damned if I'm going to give up now."

But he says he's the man for the job, as though there's no flicker of a doubt in his mind, which – because he's not stupid - there must be.

Most wretchedly, people who lost loved ones in the Iraq war want to hear Tony Blair admit that he got it wrong.

Blair will be hoping to be vindicated by history. It would be a terrible thing to admit to himself, let alone anyone else, that it was simply a mistake to take Britain to war.

It's such a terrible burden to bear, I almost feel sorry for him.

Though not as sorry as I feel for those whose grief can be assuaged only by a 'sorry' that will never come.