Speaker John Bercow denied a peerage? That would be out of order!

Some have said I appear to be enjoying all this chaos a little too much – as I introduce major plots twists like the Grieve amendment, call to a halt endless loops of meaningless votes and break a nail-biting Commons deadlock – but hey, somebody has to do it, and it may as well be someone with talent, charisma and booming vocals to potentially front his own reality show upon retirement from politics.

Others have claimed I’m biased, but in both directions simultaneously, which I take as the highest possible compliment – even higher than the compliments I pay myself when I’m looking in the mirror in my Commons dressing room before a big day of bellowing. Let me tell you, my right reasonable and learned friend, you don’t get to be Britain’s number one junior tennis player without learning a thing or two about fair play.

It’s only right that backbenchers should have the chance to say their piece, and to potentially experience the unique thrill of me using over-the-top, flowery language to sarcastically tell them I think they’re twits (you also don’t get to be Britain’s number one junior tennis player without achieving mastery of the back-hander).

It’s certainly been an exciting few weeks for me, the most internationally popular man in UK politics. When I allowed a vote on the Grieve amendment back in January, the BBC’s right reliable Mark D’Arcy wrote: “this is the biggest thing the Speaker has done, or is likely to do”. If that wasn’t a formal challenge, I don’t know what is! I left Mr D’Arcy a high-decibel voicemail in response. “Hold my racquet, sir,” I thundered into the phone, “the best is yet to come!”

Of course I managed to outdo myself shortly afterwards, when I realised I’d have to delve into the history books to stop the right laughable Theresa May from hogging the limelight with quavering speeches about her blessed deal.

A few people weren’t very happy about me digging up a precedent dating back to 1604 – before the Treaty of Union created the UK Parliament – but I bloody well got away with, didn’t I? Such was the desire to put the PM’s gas on a peep and prevent a never-ending Groundhog Day of voting that nobody kicked up too much of a fuss about.

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I served up a challenge to the Tory leader and what did she do? She detached her withdrawal agreement from her political declaration and hit it straight into the net.

The problem with historical precedents is that you can’t always rely on them. Precedent dictates that the Speaker is thanked for his or her service with elevation to the House of Lords, yet rumours are circling that I – arguably the greatest Speaker the UK Parliament has ever seen – may find my passage to the £300-a-day retirement home blocked. It would be the first time a Speaker was kicked out of the door without a peerage in 230 years. They cannot be serious! That would be out of order indeed!

But not to worry. As the break-out star of Brexit I now have a global fanbase lapping up showreels of my loudest bellows and my wittiest verbal volleys. A Dutch newspaper recently declared me “louder, boisterous and, yes, more animal than ever”, a Belgian title declared me “often unbearable, but irreplaceable”, and the easily pleased Germans can’t get enough of me roaring “Order! Order!” on a loop. This week a dismissal I delivered to one of my right tolerable friends was set to the music of Gilbert and Sullivan, and for next week I’m planning a scolding of Jeremy Corbyn that’ll perfectly match 32 bars of Ariana Grande’s Thank U, Next.

The opportunities to showcase my talents on TV are therefore surely endless. I’ve already lined up a judge’s spot on Britain’s Got A Shred of Credibility, the new reality show we’ll be using to select political candidates in the dark days following a blindfold Brexit, but I’m concerned this will mostly involve me sitting quietly. Accordingly, I have pitched a few other projects. Bercow’s About would see me touring the country to stand at a different “Speaker’s Corner” each week, shouting the week’s news headlines at passers-by and throwing in the odd piece of fake news – the death of a beloved cat, the commencement of a zombie invasion – to prank an unsuspecting local resident.

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In Point of Order I’ll combine my love of tennis with my love of shouting, by acting as umpire for games of mixed doubles played by former MPs who are struggling for work. Every time one of them goes to serve for a set point I’ll shout out an arcane regulation from Erskine May’s book of parliamentary practice, and the winners will be the team who manage to keep calm and not smash their racquets to pieces.

The more I think about, the less bothered I am about that seat in the Lords – after all, who wants to sit on the sidelines when you could be yelling at viewers during prime time?

Regardless of what happens to the UK in the next few weeks, months and years, there’s no doubt that my status as total legend is secure.

Game, set and match to JB!