The assisted dying rigmarole has served one purpose: it facilitated an opportunity for rehabilitation for all those careerist, shitehawk MPs to demonstrate that they are sensitive to meaningful social issues rather than being obsessed with the masturbatory obsession with endless wonga.

So, they diarised a five-hour debate to explore a defining moment in the nation’s existential being.

Just the five hours? It fooled no-one.

Watching it, I was desperate for the 0800 number to flash up so I could register my interest.

Heading the pro-death charge was hapless, hatchet-faced turbo-lez, Quim Leadbeater, sister of Jo Cox – the sister with the Kryptonite surname.

I’d rather be shot and stabbed. Or be forced to live on a houseboat.

One of the two.

Apparently, though, to get sign-off on your legitimated, assisted demise, you need to get approval from two doctors and a judge.

Under this government, you can’t even get a doctor’s appointment if your long-term goal is to survive.

Talk about tone death.