Mandy did not walk into the House of Lords so much as slide. He was preceded by Black Rod, whose calves were looking fetching in his best silk stockings, and a man dressed in a heraldic tabard that made him look like a playing card.

Then, without warning, as if he had come in on casters, Mandy was there.

He looked uncommonly solemn, his thin lips set in a wavy line above the huge collar of floppy ermine (he was born to wear ermine).

It was no surprise to find him slightly stooping, causing his red robes (he was born to wear scarlet) to hang unevenly. His mahogany hair had been parted with a ferocity that left a white streak of scalp that looked as though it had been furrowed, the hair on either side having been sprayed into lifelessness.

The Upper House was at its most beautiful for the event, its huge candelabra a-twinkle, its golden throne glittering. The red leather benches were fuller than usual, both because of this spectacle and the debate on 42-days detention that was to follow.

Up in the gallery sat a gaggle of Mandy fans who included Tessa Jowell and Anji Hunter, two Blairites there to see the ennoblement of a third. Beforehand, as they had loitered in the peers’ lobby, the air-kissing was conducted to a highly competitive standard.

A man in a periwig unrolled a scroll from the Queen. “Greeting!” he exclaimed. Mandy’s hooded eyes didn’t flicker. The periwig announced that Peter Benjamin Mandelson was our “right trusty and learned beloved counsellor”.

No one laughed. She would “advance, create and proffer” on him the “state, degree, style, dignity, title and honour of Baron Mandelson, of Foy in our County of Herefordshire and Hartlepool in our County of Durham”.

It was a simple title for a simple man. The Baron’s head drooped a little to one side, his hair not moving with it. I know that he is Baron Mandelson, of Foy et al, but, as he reached out a languid hand for the Bible, it all did seem rather fey. Or coy, even.

“I, Peter Lord Mandelson,” he began, his voice clear as a bell. He ended the oath by saying, “so help me God”. Poor God. I’m not sure He really wants to be dragged into this particular oath. Indeed I’m not sure that Mandy would ever need the assistance of the Almighty, for he can now, surely, just look in the mirror.

Now Lord Mandy and his trusty “friends” (Lord Falconer of Thoroton and Baroness Jay of Paddington) stood before the Lord Speaker and bobbed heads in little curtsies. “Hear, hear!” cried Labour peers (they speak with forked tongues) as Mandy slid past and wended his way from the Chamber on a suitably serpentine path.

The Mandy fan club scurried down to air-kiss the Baron. The glamour deficit was immediately filled by the appearance of Joanna Lumley in the gallery, there to hear the peers discuss the immigration rights of the Gurkhas.

Mandy slid back in, floating on a cushion of air-kisses, for a bit of the debate on 42 days. He reclined on the front bench, looking around him like a tourist. I think he wanted someone to take his picture. It wasn’t long before he slid out for, as Business Secretary, he always has business to do.

Peers proceeded, without further ado, to completely trash the Government’s proposal on 42 days. Even Lord Mandy of Fey and Coy couldn’t stop that.

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