Sketch: Garlic? Check. Crucifix? Check. Wooden stake? Check. And just in case � revolver with silver bullet? Check.

Garlic? Check.

Crucifix? Check. Wooden stake? Check. And just in case - revolver with silver bullet? Check.

I was entering the realm of the undead as Count Mandelson of Transylvania had graciously decided to materialise before MPs to answer questions on his new brief of Business, Enterprise and Regulatory Reform; a departmental name the Commons committee members want changing as their acronym is BERRC.

Proceedings began jovially enough as Peter Luff, committee chairman, wished the Count many happy returns. The old stager is 55. Or should that be 555 in Vampire years?

It was like old times when the Count was asked a straightforward question about newspaper articles - what else? - which suggested he was in favour of a) part-privatisation of the Royal Mail and b) scrapping flexible working hours, both of which would have his more traditional Labour colleagues howling at the moon.

The birthday boy looked dead ahead to the chairman and explained that the post office article was not based on any one-to-one he had given the newspaper in the last three days but must have been based on earlier remarks while the piece on working hours was again not based on any interview. In other words, he was not denying anything but making it sound as though he was, as though he was a victim.

Then the old glamourpuss sought to attract more sympathy, sighing that this was the same old "media narrative" that he had to put up with, which owed more to "lifestyle journalism than economic or business analysis". He insisted that the only thing that was missing was "sex, drugs and rock'n'roll," noting: "No doubt, these missing elements will be rectified in the coming Sunday papers. I await it with baited breath."

When Luff pointed out that complaining about the press was like moaning about the weather, the Count smirked and said quietly: "No complaint from me. I love them all - like my family." Cue thunderclap and menacing glance.

As the big beast went through the questions, his demeanour had an animal quality to it. He spoke very slowly and deliberatively with each phrase calibrated as though it had been thought through and chewed over hours in advance.

This slow rhythmical quality seemed to have a mesmerising effect on some of the committee members, who looked on as if hypnotised by the Count's "charm", as one of them put it.

When pressed over how his department had been reduced in size, the peer insisted such matters were "above my pay grade". Luff interjected: "Nothing is above your pay grade." Mandy replied thankfully: "Well, higher."

It was toe-curling stuff but at one point, supremely confident none of those before him would outmanoeuvre him, Mandy almost whispered how he would like to take "you into my confidence", paused and then looked slyly over at press with a large smirk on his face. Being "taken into confidence" by the Count sounded like a death sentence. At which pointed I could have sworn a wolf howled in the distance.

As the two-hour session by the Gothic clocktower zipped by, it was noticeable how the mention of a certain Russian oligarch and a certain Shadow Chancellor had not even been mentioned.

Could the fact that "friends of Mandelson" had landed George Osborne in it have anything to do with the Count wreaking his revenge on the upstart Tory?

The Count's thirst for political blood it seems goes undiminished. Happy days are here again.