Britain’s last remaining growth industry, the Cabinet removals service, once again enjoyed another bumper day. The previous occupants had barely reached the door before Andy Burnham set about the noble tradition honoured by every incoming Prime Minister: handing the nation’s most important jobs to precisely the wrong people.

And what a masterstroke to open with. Ed Miliband, a man who once lost a general election to David Cameron and a bacon sandwich, has been made Foreign Secretary. Yes, dear reader, THAT Ed Miliband. The high priest of net zero, the patron saint of the wind turbine, the man who never met a solar panel he didn’t want to hug, is now to be let loose upon the world.

Consider the delicacy required of the role. This, after all, is the man who once branded Donald Trump a “racist, misogynistic, self-confessed groper”, words that will surely lend a certain frisson to their first warm chat about the special relationship. Perhaps The Donald will instruct the White House switchboard already screening his calls – “No, lil’ Eddie”.

Already, his reputation has noticeably preceded him, with sources in the White House saying they find his appointment “deeply concerning”, which hardly bodes well.

Elsewhere, I assume his diplomatic tour presumably takes in a stern lecture to Vladimir Putin about his carbon footprint, before he cycles to Riyadh to warn the Saudis of the manifest evils of oil.

He wanted to be Chancellor – they always do. Instead, Mr Burnham handed the nation’s cheque book to one John Healey, which explains why Mr Healey has looked so unaccountably chipper of late, practically skipping the length of the Palace of Westminster. For this is the very man who flounced out over the defence plan, that wretched scheme with the £5billion crater in the middle of it.

The chap who resigned in protest at a hole in the accounts is now in sole charge of those accounts. Marvellous. What could possibly go wrong?

Spare a thought, too, for Rachel Reeves. She tried her best, did our Rach. Offered the job of Education Secretary, she demurred in a rare and welcome flash of self-awareness, bolting for the backbenches faster than you can say “black hole.”

So the great game of ministerial musical chairs crashed on, each player shuffling gaily around the crater in the carpet, nobody daring to look down.

Yvette Cooper has now held three top jobs in the space of two years – Home, Foreign, and now Health- that Whitehall may as well issue her a season ticket.

Above it all beams Mr Burnham, promising “the biggest changes in 40 years”. On the evidence of day one, the only change is that the deckchairs are now being rearranged by a Mancunian rather than a lawyer.

And somewhere in a quiet corner of the Foreign Office, the new Secretary of State sits alone, squinting at a map, Googling “where is Azerbaijan?” and asking an aide, in a small voice, whether they’ve tried powering the place with wind turbines.

Welcome, one and all, to the new era. Same old tune, just a different karaoke singer, miming along to a song he doesn’t know the words to.