WHO would be Prime Minister? For the nature of power is this: it’s just one thing after another. As Harold Macmillan put it: “Events, dear boy, events.” Or during Boris Johnson’s tenure: “Gropes, dear boy, gropes.”

It was a poignant moment as Boris groped his way into the chamber, effectively acting as caretaker PM. To loud cheers, he took his seat, surrounded by smiling backstabbers. Having removed their knives, they now patted him on the back.

Before Boris the jannie could speak, mayhem erupted. The Speaker, Sir Lindsay Hoyle, was so enraged that his voice rose to a squeak, and even briefly gave out, before he recovered it sufficiently to roar: “I will not tolerate such behaviour. Either shut up or get out!”

These remarks were directed not at Boris but at Alba members Neale Hanvey and Kenny MacAskill, who remained on forbidden hind legs, shouting about an independence referendum. “Sergeant-at-arms, escort them out!” ordered Sir Lindsay. Hullaballoo, cheers, jeers, laughter, chaos: democracy in action. Voice near Sir Lindsay: “Insurrection!” Steady on, old boy.

Once calm was restored, Boris, comparatively dignified, spoke of serious world affairs before indulging a brief smile as he waffled the usual rubric about having had meetings with Cabinet colleagues. The swine that they are.

This was followed by Robin Millar (Con) thanking the Prime Minister for taking an interest in his Aberconwy constituency, “whether he’s been eating ice cream on the pier in Llandudno [or] sampling Welsh Pendragon whisky”. Yes, it’s a hard life as Prime Minister. Boris said he’d enjoyed the whisky but had ignored the revolver, a reference to aids traditionally given to people committing honourable suicide. Who knew Llandudno could drive you to that?

Keir Starmer had his water pistol locked and loaded, as he guessed Boris must be feeling demob-happy: “Finally he can throw off the shackles, say what he really thinks, and forget about following the rules.” Rules? Boris looked baffled. He said he was, however, “grateful for the ability to speak my mind, which I never really lost”. Hadn’t lost his mind? Controversial claim.

As for being demob-happy, he was pleased to advise that the “eight brilliant candidates who are now vying for my job could wipe the floor with Captain Crasheroonie Snoozefest”. Shortly afterwards, Sir Keir referred to “Johnsonian brass-neckerie”. Brass-neckerie? Crasheroonie? Why do they hate the English language so?

At any rate, Boris polished the brass-neck to a braw shine as he pleaded for an end to “this constant vilification”. What? And undermine the very basis of democracy in this country? Outrageous.

Sir Keir said Boris was “totally deluded to the bitter end”. Boris: “This is really pitiful stuff.” Sir Keir: “I really am going to miss this weekly nonsense from him.” Aren’t we all? Remember: what’s bad for the country is good for the sketch-writer.

Boris proceeded to damn Sir Keir with faint praise for his style: “I think it’s fair to say that he has been considerably less lethal than many other members of this House.” Ouchy. And, while it was true he was leaving “at a time not of my choosing”, he was still going “with my head held high.” No thanks to his pals. They’d wanted it on a spike.

The poignancy of the occasion was almost unbearable as Ian Blackford, the SNP’s Westminster leader, rose to address his role-playing foe, for the penultimate or possibly last time (some uncertainty about this). Mr B had a bee in his bonnet about the Tory leadership contest descending into “a toxic race to the right”.

Compared with the candidates, he said, Genghis Khan looked “like a moderate”. This was arguably an exaggeration. Certainly didn’t apply to the erstwhile PM: while the Mongol leader had cut the world population by countless millions, Boris had increased it by so many children that he couldn’t count.

The PM said he felt “a real twinge” that this might be the last time he and Ian faced each other across the house. Sly old fox: he felt much more than that. As frequently hinted by the PM, away from the spotlight Ian and Boris enjoy a close relationship, reading poetry together, sitting in gardens at sunset hand-in-hand, taking trips to pleasant spots in their two-seater sports car.

Last they’d be seeing each other? Poppycock. At PMQs in the meantime, proceedings petered out with parochial backbench stuff (“I am ambitious for Cheadle”) and Boris’s usual idle boasting: “I am responsible for building more bridges than anyone else in this House”. Must be a Lego thing or some such. Difficult to Lego office, though.