It would be easy to mock the SNP’s Pete Wishart. But I feel for him. Just picture the glow of excitement on his little face, late last night, as the brainwave struck him. Then picture him, alone in his flat, feverishly drafting his lines; polishing them until they shone; learning them by heart; and then delivering them, with effortless panache, in the bathroom mirror, to the acclaim of his imaginary audience.

This, he must have whispered, as he hugged himself with glee, was going to be a triumph.

Reality, though, is a cruel mistress. And today, once again, I fear she let Mr Wishart down.

His object was simple. He was going to use the first PMQs of the year to ridicule Theresa May. He was going to lampoon her. Skewer her. Cleave her in two with the mighty broadsword of his satire.

At 12.25pm, his big moment finally arrived. The Speaker called his name. Mr Wishart sprang to his feet.

“On a scale from one to 10,” he drawled, “how well does the Prime Minister think her Brexit is going – with 10 meaning ‘everything is going perfectly’, and one meaning ‘chaotic cluelessness’? I know what I’d give her. But what would she give herself?”