THERE are many ways to describe the process of selecting a new Tory leader.

For me it is akin to choosing which Crystal Palace player I’d like to score the winning goal against Brighton in the 90th minute of a Champions League final. Others have likened it to picking one’s favourite bit of diced carrot from a pool of vomit or deciding which portable loo to use on the third day of a festival.

I was actually in the bath when it became obvious that Johnson was on his way out, and I wrote a limerick to celebrate. The next morning, as the vultures continued to gather, I wrote another one, and from that point decided to chronicle the whole inglorious process in a series of limericks. (I think the limerick is the poetic form best suited to such a puke-inducing cavalcade of callous, self-serving, navel-gazing egotism.)