IT'S beginning to sound so like panto.

First the bearded one leaves stage left and the crowd cheers. The elegantly coiffeured one, unmistakable in her expensive scarf and trademark leopard skin shoes, comes to the front of the stage to accept the applause and address the house. But then, oh no! What's this? The bearded baddie reappears stage right. The crowd gasps, the whole nation gasps, but – worse! – the elegant one hasn't noticed!

Instead, she's beaming and saying: "-as you can see, he's not there anymore," touching the back of her hair as she does so. We're not having that. "Oh yes he is!" we all boom. "I'm sorry, I can't hear you," she replies, cupping her ear provocatively to the audience, because she still has it this one, and she knows it. "Where did you say he was?" "Behind you!" we boom, in the time-honoured way.

Slowly, the elegant one turns around and as she does so the bearded one follows her, mimicking her stance, at one point stopping to hold up his wrinkled Clarks shoes, gesturing to them with a resigned shrug of his shoulders as if to say "We are not as lucky as some. This is all we can afford."

The elegant one keeps turning to discover – and this is a brilliant piece of stagecraft involving hydraulic platforms, revolving panels and a giant trap-door – all 47 judges of the European Court of Human Rights "Who are you?" she says. "We're your worst nightmare-"

Indeed they are, although they're not as bad as Theresa May's own Home Office department who appear to have been using last year's calendars as a cost-cutting measure, hence the embarrassing mistake over when the actual deadline fell for when Abu Qatada – or Abu Cadabra, as he is known, because first he's gone, then he's back again – could appeal against his extradition.

But never mind that, it's time for the show-stopper. "What good is sitting alone in your cell?" the whole cast sings. "Come hear the judges say: 'Life ain't for Qa-ta-da old chum, Come let Qataba play'." At which point a single spotlight reveals the elegant one sitting astride a chair, black bowler tipped coquettishly over one eye – until the bearded one takes to the air, stage left, and sweeps across a backdrop of the Houses of Parliament, removes the hat and yells "Straight on to Neverland! Second to right and straight on till morning-!"