In Dorneywood, John Prescott has the perfect training ground. Here he can practise the heavy hit that looks good on grass or in the Commons, though perhaps wins less applause when directed at an egg-throwing opponent on the campaign stump. No wonder that Bruiser John was ready to sacrifice all except the croquet lawn when deprived of title, job or meaningful occupation. No wonder that he welcomed the brief interlude when the Prime Minister was across the Atlantic and the sun peeped through the downpours to get in some mean shots.

Croquet also adds cachet. It is not just a toff’s game, and a chance to prove to Mr Prescott senior that his son has definitively abandoned the working class; it is a game with literary and international connections. Is this not what French aristocrats played before the guillotine came down on their game? Croquet arrived across the Channel in the 16th century. By the time Alice was trying her hand with live flamingos, her fellow Victorians were keen devotees. Mr Prescott should keep the house, give up his job and make the game his métier.