The end was short but not sweet for Peter Hain. He made his announcement outside Caxton House, one of his many Westminster offices, looking as wan as it is possible to be when you have a permatan. To his right was a sign announcing this as the headquarters of Jobcentre Plus. How handy was that? Minutes before Mr Hain had been in charge of unemployed people. Now he was one of them. At least he knew where to go to sign on.

He was flying solo. No special advisers. No friends. For the past weeks Mr Hain has been the Billy-No-Mates of the Cabinet. He was going out as he had carried on: one man, by himself, against the world. Earlier in the day, he had personally called the Press Association to break the news of his own resignation.

More proof, if it were needed, that when you fall in politics you crash, bungee-style. When Mr Hain awoke yesterday he was the holder of two offices of state (Work and Pensions plus, of course, Wales). By lunch, he was organising his own swansong.

OK, so it wasn’t that elegant; or that organised. In truth, it was more of a quack, a duck’s ditty of a resignation. The whole thing was rather slapdash and, for me, quite a bit of the latter. When someone resigns who has so many offices, it’s hard to know which one to rush to. I ran, Keystone Kops-style, from one to another. I knew I’d found the right one only when I saw a scrum of people outside a building and no one smoking.

What a boring place to resign: a grey office block as faceless as the city itself. I arrived as Mr Hain exited but, above the tape mark put down for him by the TV cameramen, there was still an orange glow. His Tango aura lingered as broadcasters squawked the news to the nation. It must be said that politics will be much less orange without Peter Hain.

These days reality is so much more real on television anyway. At two and a half minutes, the statement was remarkable only for its brevity. It may be his shortest ever. He delivered it, almost word-perfect, without looking at notes. His eyes darted towards the lenses that he has always loved and will, I’m sure, miss. There were a few poignant moments that made the whole thing slightly less quotidian, but only a bit.

A feeling of farce had clung to the day from the moment that Mr Hain rang up to announce his own political death. The news soon found its way into the chamber itself and was announced, bizarrely, by the Tory MP Nigel Evans, who peevishly asked if “breaking news” meant that Wales could have its own secretary of state now.

Harriet Harman, herself vulnerable on the donations front, noted woodenly that she was not in charge of the “machinery of government”. She didn’t know for sure whether Mr Hain had resigned and, with the perfect timing for which she is known, backed him. “I personally consider him to be an excellent colleague and a good friend.”

But the news that he had a friend came too late for Mr Hain. He said he was resigning to spend more time with the police. He “severely” regretted declaring his donations late. Then he gushed on about how much he loved everyone. It was classic Billy-No-Mates (now Billy-One-Mate) stuff. Finally, he offered his continuing support to Gordon Brown, who will be, I’m sure, eternally grateful.

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