In the end, the most irritating man won. Even in victory, John Ber-Cow, as even he calls himself, provoked disharmony.

“Colleagues,” he said as if they were all working at Sainsbury’s. Labour looked on lovingly, the Tories angrily. “You have just bestowed upon me the greatest honour.”

Or, to be more accurate, Labour MPs had. Ber-Cow had been the anti-Tory Tory and, because of that, he was the one that the Labour Party wanted. When the result was announced, on the dot of 8.30pm, after six hours and three ballots, Labour MPs erupted in a deafening clatter of applause — a rare sound in the chamber — and an instant standing ovation.

Across the way, Tories, the winner in their midst, sat on their hands and bums.

It was embarrassing though Ber-Cow, glowing, probably did not care. Sir George Young, the loser, whose crime had been to go to Eton, was the epitome of good sportsmanship, elegantly flapping his hands together from the start. Few followed. Finally, David Cameron urged his party to stand up, but not all did.

Ber-Cow was “dragged” to the Chair in a thoroughly unconvincing manner by his “colleagues” Sandra Gidley, a Lib Dem, and the wildly eccentric Tory Charles Walker. As the tiny Ber-Cow stood under the canopy, a Labour MP shouted: “Stand up!”

But there was another shout too. “Not in my name!” shouted Nadine Dorries from the Tory benches. Ber-Cow glowed more.

What a day! I don’t know why anyone was surprised really. After all, the final choice was clear. Ber-Cow is a bumptious, condescending, patronising man who speaks. very. slowly. so. we. can. all. understand.

Sir George Young is fluent, elegant, experienced. I think we should have known who would win.

But, as one MP said, in despair: “How is it that we are going to end up with an eccentric little troll?” That is the question. Well, no one cannot say it was a decision taken in haste.

It had been a marathon. As the Longest Day in Democracy carried on, MPs began to have a glazed look. If they made a film about this it would be called it “They Shoot MPs, Don’t They?” And, of course, these days in Britain, we do.

It had begun giddily, like a school sports day devoted to egg-on-face races. First there were speeches. These were, in general, a lark. Exceptions were too screechy (Ann Widdecombe makes fingernails on blackboards seem soothing) and too narcotic (Madge Beckett). My favourite line was Sir Michael Lord: “Before entering Parliament, I was an arboriculturist. I know the value of tending and nurturing irreplaceable plants.”

Indeed. Then the voting began at 3.39pm. And about 5.30 and 7.10ish. This voting system is called “exhaustive ballot” and we all could see just how knackering it was. Even by the second vote, most MPs, plotting in groups, made no sense. The losers roamed among them, genuinely distraught. Politics is cruel.

“I think I’ll go have another drink — or two,” said one MP, face long, body posture screaming “despair”, after the first vote, as he pulled out his crib sheet and concluded Ber-Cow would win.

Another MP, slumping against the wall, announced: “I’m going to sleep until the next vote.”

Sleep. Drink. Gossip. Vote. That was the pattern of democracy at work. In terms of organisation, we were in brewery and p***-up territory. “I remind Members that they should vote only for one candidate,” noted Alan Williams, the ancient mariner Father of the House, drily. MPs laughed uproariously.

As I write, the Queen is agreeing to Mr Ber-Cow as Speaker and Tories are already plotting against him.

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