I was, to be fair, agog at the synagogue and what unfolded in Manchester yesterday.

Of course, there will a busload of performative bullshit from the Manchester clubs in the Premier League this weekend. Probably black armbands and some applause in the 66,000th minute to remember the Gazans who’ve lost their lives in the current conflict.

Ooh, get me! I’ll be stanning trannies next, which is rather better than launching them off roofs, which is what passes for justice and entertainment in the Middle East.

Fair play, though, to the armed busies for taking only seven minutes from the emergency call to when they punched the miscreant’s ticket.

Lets hope they respond in under five seconds next time a young women is getting raped in the back of the police van that’s parked up beside them.

Mind you, the cockwomble’s name was Jihad, so you have to wonder why the Old Bill hadn’t just done a search on 192.com and hoovered him up a decade or so ago?

After all, if I registered myself on the electoral role as Max McBomber, I’d surely get a tug.

But then again, I probably wouldn’t if Jihad had been unfettered in his open pursuit of holy war against a handful of OAPs and a Vauxhall Zafira.

As it was, Mr Weird Beard waddled out rocking a bogus suicide appendage that served as an open invitation to tooled-up rozzers to dispatch him in the blink of an eye, and he thereby succeeded only in detonating his own potential for the accumulation of Universal Credit.

I have to say that I thought when I saw his garb that his bomb did rather look big in that.

Meanwhile, Sir Keir minced back to London, providing the public with the titillating prospect of a snake chairing a Cobra meeting.

The limelight was of course reserved for the undisputed king of the shit stabbers.

Boom boom!