Disorder! Disorder! The moment the Speaker, Michael Martin, finished his statement, his assassins sprang to their feet. His few friends stayed seated. At this moment, the Prime Minister — a living wreck, eyes hollow, mouth slack — slipped out of the chamber, leaving his fellow Scot on his own.

Looking out, seeing only foes, Mr Martin at least picked an enemy he knew well: Gordon Prentice, serial rebel, serious parliamentarian, as irritating as a mosquito, as persistent as an itch. “A motion of no confidence in you, sir, will appear on the order paper tomorrow,” intoned Mr Prentice, dagger in hand. “Am I right in thinking it will be debated and voted upon?”

The Speaker, cowardice flashing like a neon sign, dodged the question: “This is not a point of order!”

Mr Prentice, eyes flashing, shouted: “Oh yes it is!”

“Order!” Mr Speaker bumbled on. “Please allow me to . . . Order! . . . these are matters for debate on an appropriate motion.” But MPs would not be appropriate or brought to order. They, who can barely organise breakfast, are trying to organise a beheading. Actually it is worse than that. They need to get Mr Martin to organise his own beheading for the benefit of the greater good. Mr Martin, as stubborn as our Prime Minister and not nearly as smart, thinks he can survive by stonewalling.

The assassins kept up the pressure with more questions about the beheading debate. “It is not a substantive motion,” Mr Martin insisted, for he believes in pedantry with a fierceness mighty to behold. From the bar of the House, the Tory Richard Bacon bellowed: “It IS a substantive motion!”

Oh, who cares, I thought. But Mr Martin does. He ignored the blatant shows of disrespect (as sure a sign as any that he’s a goner) and concentrated on the detail. Now he leant forward, robes billowing, and consulted his bewigged clerk about the Great Substantive Motion Question. The wig whispered: “It’s a motion on a remaining order.”

Mr Speaker, his tongue twisting, announced: “It’s a remaining order on the remaining order!”

Is this farce? Is this history? It is certainly hystery (hysterics, but important hysterics). Mr Speaker is like a whale who, his sonar berserk, has found himself trapped on the beach, flopping around desperately. It’s hard to watch. He cannot survive without help, it all smells putrid and rubberneckers, career crash tourists, are flocking by.

The assassins spoke one by one, more in sorrow than in anger. The Tory grandee Sir Patrick Cormack pleaded eloquently. Richard Shepherd, who always sounds close to tears, emitted a cry of pain. David Winnick pointed him towards the door.

Flop. Flop. Flop. Finally Mr Speaker called on a friend, the emollient Sir Stuart Bell. “The majority of this House will fully support the statement you made today,” soothed Sir Stuart to shouts of dismay. He heaped praise on the Speaker’s statement, which had put forward the brilliant idea that the expenses scandal can be fixed by yet another meeting.

“This House should calm itself down,” mollified Sir Stuart. “It should have a period of reflection and support you . . .” The encomium was cut short by rebellious shouts. “What world is he living in!” cried one MP. Why, Westminster, of course.

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