“THE least I expect in life is a Prime Minister, a fully functioning opposition and an England team to be proud of.”

One well-worn Lancastrian hack of my acquaintance and his morose assessment of life in Brexit Britain at the start of last week.

He’s still on hold with the Samaritans after later finding out Chorley MP and family friend Lindsay Hoyle (scion of the inimitable Doug, so Old Labour royalty by definition) had voted Leave.

I’ll leave the inquest into the merciful end of Roy Hodgson’s managerial career to much better qualified Wendyball lovers.

Though watching the national team is a treat Podium grew out of before Midweek Sports Special went off the air.

Quite where the other two political circuses pitch their tent is at least something this column can take a wild stab in the dark about.

If Theresa May isn’t dangling those kitten heels over the threshold of Number 10 by the time you read this, or is at least within touching distance of the prize, then the Tories are even more mercenary than we considered.

Her campaign manager is the former Justice Secretary Chris Grayling, who has been on a fairly impressive winning streak since failing to nail the Warrington South seat in 1997.

Without his bruising presence, May should still advance unchecked, given the ‘cream’ of Tory talent lying in wait.

Whether we need another ex-financier ready to feed large chunks of chargrilled peasantry to her City friends is a question plenty of Conservative members should be posing themselves.

Michael Gove looks for all the world like a shinier version of his own Spitting Image puppet, if that was still running.

Stephen Crabb believes ‘homosexuality’ can be ‘cured’, so at least the bonkers candidate box was ticked.

The candidature of Liam Fox has thankfully been swiftly euthanised, before any harm was done, or anyone notices.

However the real comedy can be found in the Red Rose camp, as a parliamentary party appears seemingly at war with its own membership.

I’m still firmly of the opinion that the wider voting public give the politicians they elect more of a mandate than the influx of ex-Socialist Worker ragamuffins who joined Labour as part of the masochistic ‘£3 and your are free to make us totally repellent’ special offer.

But it’s still mind-boggling to consider how the deputy leader Tom Watson and a delegation including shadow home secretary Andy Burnham can’t meet face-to-face with an apparently fragile Jeremy Corbyn, just in case the latter finally decided to jack it in.

Our own Helen Jones was quick to lament the axing of Hilary Benn from the shadow cabinet, and ex-Warrington councillor turned Makerfield rep Yvonne Fovargue went one better by joining the mass exodus from his frontbench ‘team’.

I’m still bitterly disappointed the aforementioned Burnham didn’t choose to twist the knife but that’s life. Union leaders, clearly fearful their grubby-fingered grasp on any semblance of power, and the lavish trappings of their troughs, may be evaporating, were forced to tour TV studios to castigate the rebels.

When all is said and done though, the coup is in mortal danger of disappearing into the ether itself if no-one is minded to plunge the detonator on a proper leadership contest.

The only rider, in perilous times even for columnists, is there could be a new Conservative leader/Prime Minister and peace could have broken out among the left by the time these words hit the street.

These are interesting times, dear reader, and Mystic Pete is growing more tired by the day.