Something was missing as new Prime Minister Andrew Murray Burnham (I kid you not) stood in Downing Street addressing the UK for the first time as premier.
It was not self-confidence or ambition; he had those in abundance, enough to catapult him into the job without anything as tiresome as a general election. No. Burnham was missing a lectern.
There had been one set up earlier for his predecessor. The lectern, or podium, appeared at 10.46 am, accompanied by a sound engineer chap the internet calls Hot Podium Guy.
Like the sudden appearance of the axeman at the execution, the sight of HPG meant “it” really was on for Sir Keir Starmer. This sceptred isle, this other Eden, was for the fourth time in four years putting its Prime Minister out for recycling.
Had it been quiet, we might have heard a nervous gulp from Sir Keir. Mercifully, there was no Ode to Joy/Benny Hill/Things Can Only Get Better belting out, the anti-Brexit bloke with the amplifier having presumably been told to cool it. But there was still a racket from the helicopters and the media.
Downing Street was packed with well-wishers there to see Starmer and his wife Victoria off. They “doughnutted” him, just like they do in the Commons to show solidarity. Either that or they were blocking the door just in case he tried to sneak back in.
Rachel Reeves had come all the way from Number 11 to say cheerio. Would have thought she was too busy packing. Could it really be only two years since Keir and Rachel were the future?
After a few platitudes delivered with a robotic flourish, Sir Keir said he was leaving with “good grace and a smile". We're so glad someone enjoyed his time in office.
In the interval between Starmer going and Burnham arriving - that blessed spell when Larry the Downing Street cat is left in charge of the country - the television coverage zipped back and forth to Buckingham Palace. Fiona Bruce was holding court, sounding more royal than the royals. The Starmers had brought their teenage children to the palace for the handover. The Burnham brood, all in their twenties, were presumably at work or did not fancy it.
We saw a photograph of Burnham, now Prime Minister, with Charles. It had taken half a lifetime for both men to land their dream jobs. With so much in common, no wonder their private audience overran. What fun they will have discussing a wealth tax.
Back in Downing Street, the place where a podium should have been was occupied by a mic stand of the kind used on The Wheeltappers and Shunters.
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Was it wise for Burnham to go podium-less? He could have adapted Jim Murphy’s idea of an upturned Irn Bru crate, using whatever Manchester equivalent came to hand (tins of Boddies?). But the King of the North was sending a message. If a modest hillside was good enough for the Sermon on the Mount, the plain road and a humble microphone would do for our Andy, as we must learn to call him for the short time he remains popular.
While we waited for Andy to arrive, the question of what he would be wearing occupied the commentators. We had seen him at the Palace, suited and booted. Chances are he would pop into a phone box to change into his Superdad outfit of John Lewis jeans, deep navy T-shirt and one of those shirt-jacket abominations known as shackets.
But of course there were no phone boxes because the evil Tories had privatised the service. So suit and tie it was.
Andy and his wife, Marie‑France van Heel, greeted the throng. Watching him, you wondered who he reminded you of. Norman Wisdom, that other man of the people, perhaps? Finally, the moment arrived for his speech.
He made a bowing gesture to the crowd, like some Pilates teacher ready to start class. He was nervous. “Britain needs to show that we can regain our stability once again.” Ode to Joy could be heard faintly in the background. So anti-Brexit guy (or a stand-in) was back. Not a good sign.
Burnham had a ten-year plan, but he knew help was needed now, so there would be another speech tomorrow. Between this and a promise to end rough sleeping, it was beginning to sound a lot like Christmas.
“This was the moment we bring back hope,” he declared. Hope and moment, his two favourite words. They had been Obama’s too, and look how that turned out.
Downing Street had emptied save for staff clearing away. Hot Podium Guy walked past the cameras. So he was still around too. Had it been a dream, had anything really changed? It was almost as if everyone expected we would be doing all this again soon. As if.
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