TIRED, stressed, just been kicked in the justiciaries by the Supreme Court? Then you need to fly home, sir, with RAF Airways. Among the services we offer in addition to the usual cosy blanket and cooling eye mask is the injection of copious amounts of brass into the prime ministerial neck, the better to withstand any criticism waiting at home.

Criticism? Make that sheer, spittle-flecked fury, as typified by Barry Sheerman in the Commons before the PM arrived. Addressing an Attorney General he considered insufficiently contrite (there was a lot of it about), the Labour MP, his face redder than the reddest of red flags, accused Geoffrey Cox of showing “no shame at all”. Well, he had some shame, but like a week’s dole it only went so far. Yes, the Government accepted the judgment and that it had lost the case, but what a small hill of beans that amounted to compared to the opposition’s cowardly refusal to face the electorate.

"This Parliament is a dead Parliament,” bellowed Foghorn Leghorn, getting into his strut. “It should no longer sit. It has no moral right to sit on these green benches.”

Having stolen a line from Monty Python, he switched to Dad’s Army. "They don't like to hear it, Mr Speaker!” he cried as the shouting grew so loud you could have landed the PM’s plane next door and no one would have heard. He was so excited he let the cat out of the bag on another election motion, rather stealing the boss’s thunder later on.

Mr Cox had set the tone of the day to “vicious” and it was not even lunchtime. Earlier, he had crossed plastic swords with Joanna Cherry, the SNP MP who was instrumental in bringing legal action against the Government, and who has performed a minor miracle in making lawyers popular.

“I am not going to call for his resignation,” soothed Ms Cherry. “Yet.” Like her colleagues, she was sporting what looked like a new, bright yellow lanyard with “SNP” emblazoned on it. Wot, no rosettes or scarves? In Holyrood, several MSPs were sporting sparkly brooches in homage to Lady Hale, president of the Supreme Court and her now famous spider pin.

After Mr Cox, Ministers took it in turns to answer emergency questions on subjects stretching from the collapse of Thomas Cook to government grants given to a firm run by a young American businesswoman during Mr Johnson’s reign as Mayor of London. Never let it be said the Palace of Varieties does not give audiences value for money.

But the main business here was with the organ grinder and not the PG Tips chimps. Mr Johnson had landed at 10.30am, his convoy to central London was tracked by a helicopter. Unlike OJ, he was heading towards justice and not away from it. That, at any rate, was the theory.

Sure enough, he made his audience wait. Perhaps he had gone to bed for a quick kip. Or the pup needed a long walk. Meanwhile, there was plenty happening on College Green. If you did not like the bare-knuckle fights inside the House there were others on offer outside.

Alexandra Phillips, Brexit Party MEP for South East England, had a stairheid rammy with Labour MP Jess Phillips (no relation) without the aid of a stairheid.

“If I could actually finish a sentence you might have something elucidated to you,” said Alex Phillips.

“I doubt it,”said the other Ms P.

“Don’t be rude, Jess. What’s your problem?”

“You’re trying to impoverish my constituents and I don’t like it.”

With that she pulled Alex’s jacket over her head and spun her round till she was sick. Not really, but that was the general playground vibe.

At last, come dinner time, the man of the many hours of waiting arrived in the chamber. How would he handle the humiliation of the Supreme Court’s ruling, the sheer beamer-inducing disgrace of it all? Easy. He was going to just bally well ignore it, save for telling the Supreme Court, “with absolutely no disrespect” that it was wrong.

Resign, resign, resign, they cried from the benches opposite. “For the good of the country he must go,” said Jeremy Corbyn, flanked by his great mate and deputy Tom Watson. Bojo was not for budging one inch. Next up was Ian Blackford, SNP leader in the Commons. Drawing himself up to his full five foot something frame and adopting the look of a severely narked Orville the Duck, Mr Blackford asked if the PM had no shame? Mr Blackford showed himself slightly lacking in the shame stakes when he quoted a Clash song about the PM fighting the law and the law winning. London might be calling Mr Blackford but the Comedy Store surely isn’t.

In response, Mr Johnson railed at the “high-taxing, fish abandoning” government of Scotland. Some chaps abandon marriages, some chaps fish. Each to his own.

Would no-one persuade this Superglue PM to go? Lib Dem leader Jo Swinson stood up. If her five year old son can say sorry for kicking a football indoors surely the PM could apologise for illegally shutting down democracy? Well, what do you think?

On College Green, one news anchor was trying to sum up where we were now after yet another blockbuster day. Exactly where we were yesterday, he ventured? Yes, said his colleague, except it had not been raining today. Mr Johnson, a Prime Minister who operates in his own personal weather system, blows onwards.