Did he stand by his unlikely alibi regarding the Robbins rub-out? ‘Yes I do!’ cried Sir Keir Starmer, all neck-tweaky and macho.

Chef defends slumped souffle. Captain of the RMS Titanic: ‘Do not abandon ship. Lunch will be served at an angle but there is nothing to worry about, ladies and gentlemen.’

Peril has galvanised our helmsman. Sir Keir’s adrenal glands were pumping him full of chemical confidence. He was fighty, jabbering, clawing, scribbling on his notes, fizzing with scorn for ‘the party opposite’. Proximity to the rocks can do wonders for a mariner’s energy levels, even if there were moments when he talked so fast that his voice went squeaky.

Kemi Badenoch, for the third time this week, hurled herself at the tangle of Lord Mandelson’s security vetting and Sir Keir’s slippery role in that saga. The Tory leader felt Sir Keir had left undone those things that he ought to have done, and had done in those mandarins what he ought not to have done in, as Archbishop Cranmer nearly put it. There was no health in him and ‘he should take responsibility and go’.

Sir Keir jumped off his corner stool and flurry-punched, windmilling, flailing, jumping up and down and shouting. Anything to save himself. In the boxing ring of PMQs it pretty much worked. Mrs Badenoch produced a charge. Sir Keir countered it with a blurted denial and resumed his seat with an almost audible ‘ha!’ 

Mrs Badenoch resubmitted her question. Sir Keir spat a retort in a cold tone that said ‘I done nuffin’ wrong’. With which he snapped shut his folder and released a jet of breath from his upturned lips, a pfffrrrt of indignation that rose like pipe smoke from Popeye’s furiously puffed corncob.

The Prime Minister arrived for PMQs with two minutes to spare. He was bristling with intent. The hair was newly lacquered. His eyes glistened with self-justification. Rachel Reeves loitered behind him. She has acquired the slightly raddled gaiety of a bar-fly down to her last fifty-quid note. Or should that be ‘our last fifty-quid note’?

Ed Miliband, who used to avoid the Commons if possible, was prominent for the third time in a week, flashing his enormous teeth at colleagues. Ed’s dentist has the easiest job in the world. No need to go caving. He just has to ask the patient to hang out his gnashers and out they pop like the underpants drawer of an old-fashioned gentleman’s wardrobe.

Wes Streeting crouched on the steps of the Speaker’s Chair, a position that spared him the necessity of bogus nodding and supportive hurrahs for the TV cameras, yet enabled him to be seen by Labour backbenchers. Cooee, look at me, I’m free. The other advantage about sitting there was that Mr Streeting could see the backbenchers’ faces. He could see which of them were cheering Sir Keir and which were not. Which was pretty much all of them.

As Mrs Badenoch toiled away, the one Labour MP to offer Sir Keir support, albeit discreetly, was Josh Fenton-Glynn (Calder Valley). He was sitting on the floor at the far end of the House. From my place upstairs I could see him but the Speaker could not. ‘Boring!’ he shouted at Mrs Badenoch. Speaker Hoyle heard that and a succession of larky comments but he could not tell where they were coming from, and his snout twitched.

The Chancellor’s parliamentary private secretary, Alistair Strathern, was standing nearby and shot Mr Fenton-Glynn a look of encouragement. Mr Fenton-Glynn giggled. Eventually he felt the urge to stretch his legs and stood up. Speaker Hoyle spotted him at that point and told him to put a sock in it.

On Mrs Badenoch battled. Sir Keir was as uncommunicative as a telephone tree. And eventually, as happens with telephone trees, Kemi was driven to exasperation and started muttering annoyance. ‘This is a joke!’ and ‘I dunno what planet he’s on!’

Press button two for dissembling, three for downright lies, four for fantasy...