What a brutish business politics is. Sir Keir accepted his fate with reluctant grace but towards the end the understated, bitten-back Englishness of it all became a little too much and his voice started to break. Damn emotion.

He gulped and blinked behind those suddenly vulnerable-looking spectacles. When he walked over to his wife she engulfed him in a hug. Supporters clapped but all Sir Keir will have been able to hear, I wager, was his own thudding pulse in his ears, and Lady Starmer’s soft coos of comfort.

The waterworks began, as so often, when the departing prime minister had finished with the political necessities - the call to the King, the request to the Soviet-sounding National Executive Committee of the Labour party, instructing it to begin a leadership process - and got on to his family. He was giving up the biggest job in the country and would now ‘spend more time on the most important job: being the best husband I can to my fantastic wife Victoria who has been a rock at my side through good times and bad, and being the best Dad I can to my beautiful children who are my pride and my joy.’

Which 63-year-old would not find himself overwhelmed when saying such things, particularly after so many weeks of hellish stress?

It was early, just 9.34am, when 10 Downing Street’s front door opened, the jaw of a whale about to disgorge its latest hapless mariner. Sir Keir was with his wife. Some resigning PMs (and there has been no shortage of them in recent years) manage to summon a half-convincing smile when they step on to the scaffold. Sir Keir did not. He and Victoria looked pretty miserable.

He devoted much of his speech to claims that his premiership had been a wonderful success and that he was leaving Britain in a better state than he found it. One hesitates to be beastly to a man at such an hour but this was surely contestable. He said the economy was stronger than it had been when Rishi Sunak and Jeremy Hunt were in charge. Debt and borrowing costs suggest otherwise. He claimed that antisemitism had been expunged and that the kingdom was fairer, whatever that means. Let’s just say these things are open to question.

His task was not helped by that idiotic anti-Brexit campaigner who hangs around Whitehall with an enormous sound system. The first half of Sir Keir’s speech was polluted by a taped rendition of Beethoven’s Ode To Joy which serves as the European Union anthem. You could sense Sir Keir’s irritation, even his desperation. Should he continue while this din was wrecking a moment that would be watched around the world? What will foreign countries make of our inability to stop an oik with a ghetto blaster ruining such a moment?

Finally the racket abated and Sir Keir, in magenta tie and white shirt and a buttoned suit, had this June Monday morning to himself. The sun beamed down on flower boxes. Sparrows and blackbirds chirruped. Yet it was as ash and gall in his mouth as he said he had listened to his parliamentary party’s demand that he go. ‘I accept that answer with good grace,’ he said. He was putting first ‘the country that I love’ and therefore ‘I will resign as leader of the Labour party’.

Outside No 11 stood a small crowd of his staff and friends, among them David Lammy, Lord Hermer, Darren Jones, Chris Ward and Lady Chapman. They clapped. They cheered. Defiance too late, perhaps, but at least it showed he had some who loved him.

He and Victoria, after their long hug, trudged back towards the front door of No 10. He was doing well not to break down into bawling sobs. She placed a tender arm round his slumped back as they stepped back into the house they must soon abandon.

He leaves office, as they almost always do, looking older, more shrivelled, beaten. Bloody, bloody politics.