THERE is faint praise and then there is faint praise.

"Nothing became him in leadership more than the leaving of it," read one tweet issued seconds after Nick Clegg quit as pilot of the Liberal Democrats yesterday. Sweep the eloquence aside and what are you left with? His greatest achievement was giving up. Some epitaph.

Still, I suspect such sentiments will be but motes of dust suspended in the air following a remarkable trio of abdications. Or almost a trio. First Nigel Farage accepted his time as Ukip major domo was up, at least until he's worked on his tan, the good constituents of Thanet South having overlooked him as their rep at the House of Commons. Then Clegg fell on his sword, his party having performed woefully at the ballot box. Lastly, perhaps miffed by other middle-aged white men hogging the headlines, Ed Miliband did the right thing and stood down as Labour leader. Jim Murphy? I'm saying nothing.

Unlike politics, resignations in music tend to spring not from failure but frustration. When a stressed-out Zayn Malik chucked popular barbershop combo One Direction in March he cited wishing to lead a normal life out of the spotlight. His fellow choristers accepted his decision magnanimously, even if their fans didn't.

Sometimes frustration buddies up with hostility to bring about rupture. When, in 1971, Paul Simon telephoned his label boss to inform him there would be no more new Simon and Garfunkel recordings, it was the culmination of years of burgeoning animosity between him and Art Garfunkel. Behind the sweetest harmonies in modern music lay a bitterness which would surface almost every time the duo subsequently patched up their differences. Even now, 44 frosty years later, Simon is reluctant to share a stage with his childhood chum. Spoilsport.

More recently, Parker from Thunderbirds doppelganger Noel Gallagher was compelled to sever his ties with Oasis after suffering creative dyspepsia fuelled by creative frustration and the antics of his brother Liam, despite the band still enjoying success. After a row too far, Noel announced he "simply could not go on working with Liam a day longer", presumably paraphrasing John Lennon in the aftermath of his leaving the Beatles.

The best kind of resignation, though, is exemplified by Mark Hollis, who, after steering Talk Talk to pop chart success in the 1980s, abruptly led the group down stygian paths pocked with jazz, musique concrete and rustic psychedelia. By the time of his one and only solo album, the message was clear: that's all, folks. No drama. No fuss. Seventeen years later, his self-imposed omerta remains unbroken.

A graceful, dignified full-stop on a career studded with highs. Are you reading, Messrs Farage, Clegg and Miliband?