Even the tightest lemon yields droplets of juice. Even a dormouse’s ankle bone will contain some marrow. All the same, parliamentary sketch writers are relieved that Theresa May has gone. There may be satirical value in the leanest material but Mrs May was just so ploddingly decent. She lacked turpitude. The guild of sketch writers would have preferred that, and so, I think, would the voters.

In 21st-century Britain we are not meant to approve of naughtiness. We are forever being told the millennial generation esteems worthiness and craves some drippy utopia in which every new dad wears a papoose, direct-debit donations to Oxfam are obligatory and a twinkle in the eye is inappropriate. There are now puritanical codes on behavioural standards in high office.