"Brilliance or buffoonery?" wondered a Times headline of the Greek PM's policy ricochet this week. How about brainmelt, given the unfathomably intense pressure under which George Papandreou has been operating. Reports across the globe predict "nervous breakdown" in the eurozone, in governments, even in individuals. The leaders mime a strange pageant of stagily pointed fingers and decisive hand gestures for the benefit of the cameras, before releasing communiques best paraphrased as "Errrrrrrrrrm...". The hollow-eyed Nicolas Sarkozy now looks hollowed out. Even the previously unflappable-looking Angela Merkel looks ragged. They all appear close to the edge.

Except for one man. Only one man appears to have the temperament to handle this crisis, the Teflon nerves to withstand any amount of pressure. Unfortunately, that man is Silvio Berlusconi.

Watching the Italian prime minister leer and laugh his way through this week's Cannes summit, I'm reminded of the narrator's reflective words in The Big Lebowski: "Sometimes there's a man … Sometimes there's a man – well, he's the man for his time and place. He fits right in there." When historians search for the man who crystallised this age of reckoning, they will surely judge that man to have been Berlusconi. He is uniquely, almost enviably suited to handling crises – and simultaneously a creature whose grotesque buffoonery perfectly encapsulates the mess in which we find ourselves.

Have you been watching him? Just as you can't take your eyes off a bad actor on a stage, and their badness somehow subsumes all the action, so Berlusconi is oddly mesmeric. Where is he now, I wonder of the Italian PM? How much of a plonker is he being now? Frequently, he will oblige me by popping up in the background of footage from the summit, appearing to be making a joke about his pen, or the Chinese. The only time he appeared to realise that a serious demeanour was required was during the red-carpet arrivals ceremony in Cannes on Thursday, but otherwise it has been business as usual.

Last week, Berlusconi was filmed turning round after passing the Danish PM to take in her rear view. Then there he was again this week, checking out Argentinian president Cristina Fernandez. A visual caress of her backside, a suggestive readjustment of his tie – it's the look that says: "I could scarcely be more concerned that Italian bond yields have reached critical levels."

Many leaders would find it somewhat sobering, this experience of attending the conference as leader of a country that everyone fears could be next to implode and take them with it. Instead, you get the overwhelming feeling that Berlusconi sees the gathering as a chance to take in some cabinet-level booty. Call it a wonga wonga party. How many hours' blissful sleep do you reckon he is getting a night? Nine? Ten? In many ways he's never looked better, if you squint past the "work" and the hair transplant. And bear in mind he's always dealing with the small matter of three criminal trials as well.

Arguably the most memorable scene of recent weeks came in a joint Sarkozy-Merkel press conference, when the pair were asked if they'd been reassured by Signor Berlusconi's promises of action, and were unable to stem their smirks. What a terrifying glimpse of the historical stature of those who are supposed to be saving the world. Forgive me for adding to the pile of second world war analogies that have already been layered upon this crisis, but it momentarily seemed the equivalent of Churchill and Stalin giggling at Roosevelt at the Yalta conference, perhaps making bunny ears behind the president's head as they sat on the bench for that famous photo.

The exchange angered a member of Berlusconi's party, who thought it was ridiculous that two leaders should be disrespecting him in this manner. To which the only reasonable reply was: well it's a lot less ridiculous than electing him, madam. And electing him so repeatedly.

Berlusconi is Italy's longest-serving prime minister since the second world war, and many of us nurtured hopes that we might one day discover what precisely it was that he was doing right. Alas, that day might now be a pleasure indefinitely deferred. His country's debts are running at about 120% of GDP, and the prevailing wisdom is that Italy is too big to bail.

Yet even Merkozy's failure to keep a straight face might be eclipsed on the vignette front by news that the crisis has forced a delay in the release of Berlusconi's fourth album of love songs. Popular myth has it that Nero called for his lyre as Rome burned; Berlusconi called for his karaoke mic. His longtime, guitar-playing collaborator explains that Berlusconi sends her the words and she sets them to music, which suggests the PM may actually have been addressing Italy's catastrophic finances by trying to find a rhyme for "sexy time".

It's a shame, really, that he can't shag his way out of the problem. Still, at least he provides the tailspinning eurozone with a smutty spin on the old adage "Cometh the hour, cometh the man". How was it for you, Europe?