They think it’s all over. It is now… It was all done with comparatively little fuss. No operational note sent out to the media. No timings given to the broadcasters. Just a small flurry of activity in the street outside No 10. Microphones and loudspeakers set up. Then the Podium of Doom. It was almost as if Keir Starmer was a little embarrassed about what was happening. Wanted as few people as possible to witness his departure.

Shortly before 9.30am, Downing Street staffers and a handful of cabinet ministers assembled to say goodbye. The Unhappy Few. The last remaining loyalists. David Lammy, Darren Jones, Richard Hermer and Douglas Alexander. No sign of Rachel Reeves. Maybe she had headed up to Manchester the night before so she could come back down with Andy Burnham on Monday morning. “What are the chances of meeting like this?”

The UK was about to see off its sixth leader in 10 years. It’s getting to be habit forming. We used to laugh at the Italians for their prime ministerial churn. Now the laugh is on us. The door opened and Keir Starmer and his wife, Victoria, emerged. Both looked utterly forlorn.

It was hard not to remember that moment less than two years ago when they had walked up Downing Street in triumph after Labour’s landslide election victory. That had been a day full of hope. When a new politics had seemed possible. One where the grown-ups were back in charge. Keir had promised change. No one had considered the fact that it would be Keir that would be changed. Traded in for a newer, shinier model in a tight black T-shirt. Meet the new boss. Would he go the same way as the old boss?

From outside the Downing Street gates, the sounds of Steve Bray playing Ode to Joy, the EU’s anthem. A prime minister isn’t even extended the grace of a few minute’s peace to resign these days. Maybe it’s just considered an everyday event now. Oh look! Another one bites the dust. Thankfully someone did the country a favour and pulled the plug out of Bray’s PA system and Starmer was allowed to finish his speech in silence.

Yet there will never not be something about these occasions that aren’t remarkable. A merging of the personal and the political. The all too visible passing of power from one person to another. The ultimate price being paid by someone who had chosen to live his life in the public gaze. Yet another leader who thought that – just perhaps – he could buck the trend.

He was the one who would be different from all the others. Would go in style, a much-loved prime minister, at a time of his choosing. Instead, he was just another butterfly broken on the wheel. Even having to endure the humiliation of a particularly charmless Donald Trump social media post. There again, are there any other sort of Trump posts?

For much of Keir’s time in office, his delivery has been slightly robotic. Not as bad as Theresa May – she was in a league of her own – but still something semi-detached. It’s possible that the reason he never really connected with the country was that he never really connected with himself. Now, though, we were getting the real Keir. The undiluted, unfiltered Keir. O that this too solid flesh would melt. The emotion wasn’t just near the surface. It was the surface.

He began by talking of his achievements. A reminder to the country. And possibly to himself. That he wasn’t part of a rogue’s gallery that included Boris Johnson and Liz Truss. Prime ministers who had inflicted actual harm on the country they had led. His failure was of another order. He explained that he had transformed Labour from a party that was politically, financially and morally bankrupt to one that had won a landslide victory in just four years. In office, he had ended austerity and seen growth in the economy. No one could take that away from him.

But he could read the room. Even if it had taken him a bit longer than the rest of us. Only last Friday he was still insisting that he would carry on as prime minister just hours after Burnham’s convincing byelection win had effectively signalled the end. Better late than never though. Labour had moved on and he had been left behind. The question was now who the Labour party thought was best placed to win the next election. And the party had resoundingly said it wasn’t him.

“I accept with good grace,” he said. Well, goodish grace. There has still been no contact with Andy in the days since the Makerfield byelection. And Keir does still feel hard done by. Betrayed by those he trusted. Reluctant – not yet ready – to accept his own limitations. His own part in his downfall. Maybe he never will. That level of self-acceptance seems to escape all prime ministers.

Then the timetable for his departure. If there were to be a contest, then his successor would be in place by September. If not, then before the summer recess. This quickly turned out to be academic. Within minutes of the speech ending, Wes Streeting said he was now Team Burnham. Gissa Job. So it was going to be a coronation after all.

He would be giving his successor his full and unqualified support, he added. Mmm. That might be a bit of a stretch. Let’s just settle for not doing anything to actively undermine his successor. Andy would probably settle for that. There was no mention of whether he would be standing down as an MP or continuing from the backbenches. Probably too soon to be thinking of that. This was a day for taking one thing at a time. Losing Downing Street was all he could take for one day.

The five minute speech ended with an expression of thanks. To friends and colleagues. Well, some of them at least. The others could go do one. Lastly, his love for his wife and children. The people who did most to keep him sane. And will continue to do so in the coming weeks as he is slowly written out of the political landscape. Now, he was close to tears. His voice cracked and then broke. The reality was beginning to kick in. It would come in waves. A chronic condition that had become terminal.

Not long afterwards, Nigel Farage demanded an immediate general election. Not the coronation of another professional politician. His level of denial is breathtaking. No one deserves that label more than him. In any case, Burnham was already on his way to London. The King of the North was about to become the King of the UK.