If you consider yourself British, you must have felt proud of the shenanigans at the Wilson committee room of Portcullis House, Londonshire, this week.
As as gentleman of leisure, I tuned in at 2.30, unable to decide whether to watch the show on the BBC or - for the delicious irony - Sky.
I opted for the Beeb, mainly to gaze once more upon the visage of my old mucker, Andrew Neil. He doesn't remember me, though he may recall the tacks I used to leave on his chair every day.
Popcorn and soft drinks akimbo, I was dismayed to find proceedings starting late. Can't they do anything right? Admittedly, there was a stramash outside, caused mainly by the Press, which is now effectively harassing itself to death. Bring it on!
Initially, I was more interested in the people behind James and Rupert Murdoch, particularly the latter's burd, Bendy Weng or some such. Talk about eye-candy. And him 80-years-old too. To paraphrase Mrs Merton, what could she possibly have seen in the billionaire Mr Murdoch?
However, I did not gaze upon proceedings merely with the eyes of a man. I've sat through several tense events in my time and always felt nervous just being there. Attending court, inevitably I felt guilty, even though I was just another booby in the Press gallery.
What impressed me was how, with the eyeballs of the world upon them, these people were so cool and composed. I suppose that's how they got where they are today: distrusted by everyone. I'm the least cool person in the world. I'd be sitting there sweating, gulping and letting my bladder have its evil way, leaving a telltale pool that causes miffed cleaners to note: "That bearded bloke must have been in again."
Of the participants themselves, I've little to say. I tend to distance myself from mobs. Resignations are today's burnings at the stake. Hence, I felt a little sorry for Murdoch pere et fils. James spoke engagingly, I thought, though I concede I'm too thick to have understood the nuances of what he was saying. I'm afraid I just take everything at face value, which is how I got where I am today: nowhere.
Rupert banged the table frequently and appeared to forget who he was, which is understandable at his age. Neither of them seemed to have known much about the phone-hacking, which I accept. On newspapers, nobody asks a lot of questions.
Best of all, though, was the bloke coming in with the foam pie. And his name was Johnny Marbles. By this time, I'd left my couch to go shopping and saw the news on a big screen in the mall where, alone among the crowd, I burst out laughing. Pie, marbles, Bendy Weng, you couldn't make it up. Even on a newspaper.
As theatre, the show was a triumphant tragedy, leavened with light relief ably provided by security at the House of Commons. I've told you about security before: it's inherently dysfunctional. Airport-style scanners and doubtless guns outside. Inside, one dozy rozzer lumbering over too late to stop a foam pie. It was just so endearingly crap, so cackhandedly Camberwick Green.
I feel lost and sad now, as you do at the end of a much-loved TV series. But I'm sure there are further instalments to come.