Clive Myrie was the first to crack. It happened on the eve of the inauguration, as the world counted down the last hours of the pre-President Trump age and, in London, the BBC’s newsman was presenting the nightly review of the papers. All the while, he had one eye on the 'Make America Great Again!' concert beaming in from Washington DC, ready to cut over instantly should anything understandable happen. Finally it did. Word came that Toby Keith was performing. “I’ve heard of him,” Myrie marvelled. “Let’s listen.” The screen filled with Toby Keith doing what he does in intense close-up. And, for a second, Myrie lost it, dissolving in giggles. “Huh-huh-hur,” each laugh a dot in a psychic Morse code mayday signal: W.T.F.

Personally, I found the 'Make America Great Again!' show interesting. Most fascinating was the appearance of the then-still President Elect himself, sashaying out to the Rolling Stones’ “Heart Of Stone.” Dissecting the soundtrack’s semiotic riddle – a 1964 song by a British band known for their drug fuelled decadence and deep love of music made by hard-working black geniuses around Chicago, Memphis and Detroit – was an impossible task. But it paled, anyway, in the face of the larger question. Did whoever picked the tune actually reckon its message was that having a heart of stone was a good thing?

As Inauguration Day dawned, the big question confronting anyone planning to watch on TV was which channel to go with. Tuning in at 2pm, 9am Washington time, ITV’s broadcast hadn’t started yet, unless Judge Rinder was part of it, and choices on Freeview were limited. For a moment, the idea of following the whole thing on Russia Today seemed a great wheeze, but the irony instantly grew too heavy.

That left Sky News and the BBC. On Sky, the onscreen clock ticking down the seconds until inauguration was still whirring, lending proceedings the air of the tense climax of a Mission: Impossible episode in which all the disguises had gone catastrophically wrong. Suddenly, there was Mr Trump, heading into St John’s church, his tie, as ever, leading the way. By his side, Mrs Trump shimmered in exquisite couture, wrapped in blue the exact shade of the tears of the last baby unicorn.

While the impending first couple visited God’s house, Kay Burley was patrolling Pennsylvania Avenue in a mood reminiscent of Gail Platt excitedly preparing for a barbeque. She lassoed two Bikers For Trump for interview. One was called Wild Bill. The other wore a badge proclaiming I CARRY A GUN BECAUSE A COP IS TOO HEAVY. Wild Bill explained he and his comrades had assembled to offer “protection” for Trump supporters in case any protestors got uppity. Again, the unexpected shadow of the Rolling Stones: everything went without a hitch that time they got Hells Angels to do security at Altamont, so why not?

Over on the BBC, Katty Kay was expertly filling time by grilling correspondents in the manner of a really cool Modern Studies teacher. But by this point it was impossible to follow what anyone was saying, as the silent movie of live footage told its own story. There were Barack and Michelle Obama on the Whitehouse doorstep, awaiting the Trumps like a couple steeling themselves for the arrival of the neighbours they had managed to put off coming over for years. There were the aerial shots of the Mall, with its stubborn bald patches. There were protestors in balaclavas, turning over bins for some reason. There was the miraculous Jimmy Carter, smiling. There was Michelle, leaving the home where she’d raised her daughters for eight years as the motorcade set off for the Capitol.

And there, in that extraordinary moment, was Hillary Clinton, waiting in the corridor to take her place on the sidelines, taking one last deep shuddering breath and bracing her shoulders, as if she had forgotten the camera.

Waiting to make his own entrance onto the inauguration platform, Donald J Trump was not only aware of that camera, but unable to resist it, mouthing a silent “thank you” straight down the lens. His presidency will be riveting if only for the ballets of body language. When the big moment came and he took the oath, we could see that physically he held one hand on the Bible and the other in the air. Yet it still registered as though he had one thumb to his nose, and the other hand behind his back, fingers crossed.

As the we-have-nothing-to-sell-but-fear-itself slogans unfurled and the new President declared a transfer power from Washington DC into the hands of ordinary billionaires, Obama came increasingly to rival the statue of Lincoln brooding off to the west as a man graven in stone.

When he and Michelle finally escaped and lifted off into a lowering sky, rain speckled the camera lens, and the BBC cut to a weirdly poignant shot of Jon Sopel trying to get a photo of their departing helicopter on his phone. On Sky, there came soon after a powerful split-screen juxtaposition. On one side, Obama talking to staff out at Joint Base Andrews, still speaking of hope. On the other, President Trump signing his first executive orders. News soon came that the earliest announcements included a new missile defence system instantly labelled “the return of Star Wars.” Mr Sith goes to Washington.

From here, it was slow parades and balls. In the wee small hours, as the First Couple slow danced in red light and the singer crooned “And now the end is near,” my mind turned back to something President Trump had said not long before. Not to that inaugural speech, not to the mysteries of space, but to the words with which he ended the Make America Great Again! concert the night before the new era dawned:

“Enjoy the fireworks.”