She’d been captured by the enemy. Stripped. Separated from her comrades. Humiliated. Told to “confess” on TV. Then she was promised release, but only if she’d wear Mrs Borat’s hand-me-downs and wave like she’d just won Winning Streak.

Along with the 15 British sailors, Faye Turney probably thought that if she ever get out of Iran alive, nothing would ever seem so bad again. Every day would be a blessing.

They were all wrong. Because when it comes to humiliation, the British press make the Iranians look like amateurs.

Here’s a selection of stories from the week:

Having bought Turney’s story, the Sun gave its readers a chance to win one of the suits given to the sailors. Or as the tabloid christened it: an “Ahmadine-jacket”. Lest you doubted its authenticity, there was a picture of the suit. As modelled by page-three stunner Nicola.

Elsewhere, the youngest of the captives, 20-year-old Arthur Batchelor, sold his story to the Mirror, but later apologised if some felt this was inappropriate. He revealed that he had cried himself to sleep after the Iranians christened him Mr Bean. How did the Evening Standard’s website report this sensitive story? With the headline “I’m Sorry for Selling My Story, Says Iran Hostage Mr Bean”.

Meanwhile, the broadsheets were just as unkind. Before the sailors sold their stories, columnists had already mocked them. The Guardian’s Marina Hyde asked “What ever happened to name, rank and number?”, before comparing their waving at the camera to a pre-Ryder Cup photocall that left them “looking for all the world as if they were confident of securing an early lead in the foursomes”.

And in the Daily Telegraph, Jan Moir had a go at Turney, who’s sale of her story to ITV as well as the Sun has caused such outrage. Moir mocked her revelations that the Iranians had given her make-up to mask, not bruises or wounds, but insect bites. “What an insult, not just to everyone who has served in our Armed Forces, but to the rest of us as well, those who are usually proud to call ourselves British.” Of course, about halfway through such columns, the writers would always stop and say something along the lines of: “I’ve never been held hostage myself, and can’t imagine what it’s like, but I’ve seen The Great Escape every Christmas since 1979, so I think I know a little something about keeping a stiff upper lip.” Now, I’ve never been held hostage myself. And frankly, if captured by the Iranians I would not only have worn Borat’s suit, but his bright yellow bikini if they wanted me to. Then again, I’m not British. And this row is largely to do with what it means to be British. Or at least what the British think it means to be British.

There’s no doubt that the sailors who sold their stories made very bad decisions, which were compounded by the suggestions that they planned to flog their Iranian “goody bags” on eBay. But, just as it was when they were hidden away in Iran, it’s hard to know what pressure they were under after their release. Who was guiding them, or misguiding them? Who was protecting them? How much money was waved at them? We know that they were let down by the British ministry of defence, which told them to go ahead and make some cash, before changing it’s mind after they did just that. So, the former hostages - most of whom have not sold their stories - find themselves at the centre of a political, media and diplomatic quagmire.

Meanwhile, the disgust of the British press has come with a heavy dose of relief. Having questioned the captive’s dignity before their release, they seem delighted that they have justification for calling them cowards in the first place. If the sailors had emerged from Iran minus fingernails, there would have been some backtracking. As it happened, they’d spent some of their evenings playing table tennis. Nobody left Colditz with stories of “My Ping-Pong Hell”.

And from all quarters there has been a sense that these people have let Britain down. That they had embarrassed the country in front of the watching Americans. That the Blitz spirit has drained away, to be replaced by “marmite-eating surrender monkeys”. So, most of the country has sidled away from the “heroes” and allowed the press to wade in. Only the chequebooks of the Sun and the Mirror have saved the sailors from the full wrath of the tabloids.

As for Faye Turney, the week started with the British nation smiling at pictures of her being re-united with her three-year-old daughter. It ended with pictures of her giving two fingers to the paparazzi, and by extension the public. She wants to return to work, but you suspect it will be hard for her to rebuild her career. What awaits her? Well, she’s a survival expert, so she may take the now standard route to salvation and appear in I’m A Celebrity, Get Me Out of Here! Because if there’s anything the British press loves as much as humiliation, it’s rehabilitation.