If you have been watching the events of the last few days unfold, I think you must agree, no one does ceremony like the British. Pointless precision and uniform uniformity coupled with bulled, super shiny, mirror finish, Boots, Ankle, General Service, seem to be our nation’s superpower now that we are no longer a superpower.

Apparently, it’s all about soft power; however, there was something about all this that I could not place but found deeply unsettling, like fish heads hidden in the curtains, the whiff of decay mixed with something else.

As I sat contemplating all that had passed on my very own porcelain throne, a thought was coalescing, and as it came into sharp focus, I suddenly burst into laughter, so as giggles filled the smallest room, I realised what I had found so troubling, yet hilarious.

It was the vision of the Disney logo, with its fantasy castle, yet in my head, instead of the fictional Gothic towers, it had been replaced by the iconic elevation of Windsor Castle. A real-life Disneyland.

When I was a child, I was taken to Windsor Safari Park to see the lions and tigers walking around the English countryside. It was supposed to be a treat. Yet, there was something sad and tragic about seeing the King of the Jungle caged in captivity, held hostage in a pathetic theme park.

It’s the same feeling I get while watching the pantomime of this equally miserable performance in another tragic park, separated from each other by three miles and fifty years.

However, instead of melancholic chimps, broken lions and unhappy tigers. Or upbeat, chipper Stormtroopers and happy Mickey mice roaming this Dismayland, we have immaculate Guardsmen and shiny sailors pedalling another fantasy. Performers nonetheless. Props in a cardboard world.

Rather than sucking up to a spoiled child who wants Disneyland closed for a private visit, jolly old England went one better and built him his very own resort, and the results were as convincing as Legoland just down the road.

From a distance, it was a passing facsimile of a long-lost world, but up close, all you could see were jagged edges. Of course, it was impressive, but every bit tragic too. Instead of the great fleets that once used to assemble off Spithead, it was an echo of greatness.

It was as if we had taken the carcass of a great empire and tossed it into a stockpot, chucked in the bones of imperialism, thrown in the gristle of a colonial past, and simmered it down. All that pomp on show was just a little of what was left. A decayed demi-glaze. A regal reduction. A right royal consommé.

I was shocked to see the menu for the state banquet had Organic Norfolk chicken ballotine wrapped in courgettes with a thyme and savoury infused jus, as I would have thought the Roast Beef of old England served on Wedgwood platters by real Beefeaters more in keeping with the fantasy theme.

The King reduced to the ranks as ringmaster and toastmaster of this royal circus, with the rest of the royal family paraded about like performing seals. But let us be thankful for small mercies; the scary clown (Prince Andrew) was hidden out of sight.

That said, it’s a sad fact that wealth, like intelligence, is not evenly distributed, so Trump, of course, lapped it up; for a man who confuses glitter with gold, his palate will never be sophisticated enough to tell the difference between the microwaved leftovers of empire and haute cuisine.

Instead, like a toddler overawed by the sight of a Disney princess, Trump is impressed by the ranks of toy soldiers and seduced by the scarlet tunics. His very own parade, and with him the very point of the pageant.

Had the whole thing been set on ice, choreographed by Danny Boyle, performed to a score composed by Sir Andrew Lloyd Webber, then dubbed Strictly Come Empire, it would not have been any less embarrassing. Or shameful. More Carry On Up the Khyber than any military tattoo.

Banksy summed up his own Dismaland as a “family theme park unsuitable for children”, whereas this is eminently suitable for a big kid. Perhaps the biggest of them all.

My only hope is that pimping out a nation and prostituting its regal heritage was worth it for Sir Keir. Somehow, I doubt it.