There was a Mandy mini-drama yesterday at a meeting of the Lords’ European Union Sub-Committee A. Yes, I know it seems unlikely that such a body should even exist, much less attract a crowd. But Baron Mandelson, of Foy and Hartlepool was testifying and he is almost a celebrity these days.

Mandy makes some people go a bit doolally and one of them is Lord Pearson of Rannoch. He was in the corridor beforehand, very overexcited, clutching his own nameplate. His cunning plan was to gatecrash the sub-committee’s Mandy session. “I can do that,” he cried, waving his nameplate. “It’s perfectly proper.”

Incredibly, this turned out to be true. Lord Pearson is a UKIP peer (another unlikely combination of words) and his masterplan was to confront Mandy about what he believes is a conflict of interest between his personal EU pension and decisions that he will make in his new role as Business Secretary. “Which way will he jump?” cried Lord Pearson, who was doing quite a bit of jumping himself in what seemed an imitation of the White Rabbit.

But now here came Lord Mandelson himself, gliding up the corridor, a sprinkling of underlings scampering behind. “Crikey,” he said softly as he spied the press. “If I’d known you lot were here, I would have done a little more . . .” he paused, his eyes sliding over us – “preparation.”

The room was immensely grand: huge windows overlooking the Thames, flocked wallpaper, gold-trimmed paintings of men in wigs and satin capes. Mandy was right at home as he faced the subcommittee to which Lord Pearson (and his nameplate) were now attached.

Baroness Cohen of Pimlico began with a small gush. Mandy gushed back. “I want to say that my . . .” (he paused to search his vocabulary) “passion for the Doha round is undimmed.” Lady Cohen’s passion was undimmed too. I felt my credulity was being stretched: Doha and passion should not be in the same sentence.

“Why did Doha fail?” Lady Cohen asked with passion. Mandy wasn’t having it. “This round has NOT failed,” he insisted, embarking on a maze of an explanation before announcing: “But the meeting in July did not end in success.”

Everyone nodded except, of course, Lord Pearson, who was scribbling away on his attack-dog question. Around him, and us, Mandy’s words flowed like a river. He spoke mostly in code, though, occasionally, he said something understandable such as that George W. Bush (I had forgotten he existed, actually) should commit the US to Doha. He urged Barack Obama to resist protectionism. There would be a “lively debate”, he predicted, which I think is code for all-out war.

Suddenly, in mid-word, an ear-splitting ringing filled the air. It was the division bell. “We have to vote,” Lady Cohen shouted. Mandy’s eyebrows jumped. “Me too,” he shouted back. “I have to keep reminding myself,” Mandy bellowed the rest of his answer.

Lady Cohen shouted that she hoped Mandy could come back after the vote and extend the session. “I have a meeting with the French Employment Minister,” he screamed, “in the vital national interest of our country.”

Everyone decanted to vote and Lady Cohen pulled Lord Pearson aside. In a minute he was out in the corridor, heading home, bemoaning his bad luck. Because of the vote (Amendment One of the Planning Bill) there would not be time for his renegade question. “He was saved by the bell,” he cried with, it must be said, passion.

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