Watching Italian television the past few days has been a chortlesome experience as the new-found bromance between Silvio and Muammar continues to unfold.
As the Libyan leader saunters between venues with his posse of Libyan security beauties, it has become a desperate wager over who will commit the first faux pas.
Will Silvio let slip a racist slur, or is he too preoccupied with the seeping wound that is his marital strife?
Perhaps the answer arrives in the positive, as Gaddafi is producing gold nuggets of pseudo-wisdom at a rate of knots that render Prince Philip akin to the Dalai Lama.
Forsooth, today the scowling one touched upon the contentious topic of women’s rights in not only the Middle East, but more specifically in Italy.
It started well: addressing 700 Italian businesswomen and politicians in Rome, he lamented women’s status in Arab and Islamic countries, where “a woman is like a piece of furniture, you can change it when you want.”
But thenceforth it began to unravel as he stated a woman’s right to drive is dependent on “her husband, her brothers, or the father to give her permission”.
Unrepentant despite the hail of heckles, Gaddafi rumbled further that European women acquired equality “but [that] the reason is not development, or voluntary choice, but rather a constriction, a need”, as the menfolk were busy fighting wars.
Nevertheless, his peculiarly mercurial stance did not diminish his roguish charm as women thronged to garner his scribble.
Naturally, I am deeply envious not to have had the opportunity to attend, but equally I wonder whether I would have been agog in pique or adulation, though I am ashamed to admit it.
Gaddafi has, for want of a better word, become an icon of bombast, a braggadocio for our times.
While Berlusconi roils my blood every time his gleaming coiffure sidles onto the screen, there is something oddly captivating about the Libyan leader, that I have yet to fathom.