To the Locarno room at the Foreign Office, dripping in all its imperial gilded splendour for the fond farewell to the American emperor himself as he rides, stetson illuminated, into the glowing sunset.

As is usual for such grand B&B events, the humble seekers after truth were kept seated for more than two hours before the gruesome twosome put in an appearance, all of which meant my right leg had gone completely numb and reporters had to stop playing I-spy.

When the diplomatic double act finally emerged from behind the large wooden portal the contrast was striking.

Dubya in a crisp blue suit and gold tie seemed relaxed and refreshed with a healthy tan.

He was jokey and was obviously looking forward to leaving the world stage for long hazy days on his Crawford ranch.

By contrast, in his crumpled duvet was Gordy, looking tired, pallid and jowly as if the troubles of the world had been plonked on his shoulders; of course, they have.

The spectacle had the appearance of a before and after advert for wannabee politicians with Dubya, surprisingly perhaps, as the man with the cleaner complexion, the fitter body and the full head of hair.

Possessing a short attention span, abstaining from alcohol and getting to bed by 10pm every day have their advantages.

Gordy, meantime, with his spongelike capacity for absorbing every detail of every problem, appeared in dire need of a blood transfusion and a long beach holiday in the Seychelles.

As the press conference pressed on, the content was familiar: the rhetorical puffed-up staunchness of allies on Iraq and Afghanistan and metaphorical fingers being jabbed in the eye of Iran's Mahmoud Ahmadinejad over enriched uranium and nuclear weapons.

Sprinkled throughout were references of mutual love and admiration - "shared values", "special partnership" and "mutual interest", at each turn Gordy nodding his thanks to his American partner.

And there was, of course, the compulsory reference to Winston Churchill, Dubya's boyhood hero.

Throughout the PM's oration, the President appeared fixated on Gordy's right ear. He inspected it closely and smiled at it as its owner ran over the topics of the B&B get-together.

The Prez pointed out how there had been much speculation that this would be the last trip to the UK. "Let them speculate. Who knows?" Speaking about his private dinner at No 10 the night before, when he met a number of British historians, Dubya thanked his host, praised the standard of British historianship and added: "The food was good, too."

At the end, when a touchy-feely Dubya called a close to the press conference and offered his hand to surly Gordy, His Britannic Majesty's face suddenly erupted into a huge, pearly white explosion of a grin.

The aide with the smile button had obviously pressed a little too hard. Unlike his transatlantic chum, the PM does not do natural.

And with a wave of the hand, the misunderestimated leader of the free world was gone. For good?

Could this really be the last time we see the man who once declared: "One of the great things about books is sometimes they have fantastic pictures."

Light entertainment and international politics will never be the same again.