WHAT a day of contrasts it seemed to be when Barack Obama gave his history-defining address in the mother of all parliaments – the first American president to do so.

On the one hand we had Obama telling the world – in a speech full of intellectual gravitas – that the US and the UK lead the way in the West and will remain an indispensable influence in the future, despite the rising dominance of nouveau superpowers such as China, India and Brazil.

On the other we had a cast of thousands paying tribute and saying farewell to Obama’s fellow American, TV sofa queen Oprah Winfrey, after 25 years and 4,560 shows that became a hallmark for celebrity confessions, tears and hand wringing.

On the one hand we had arguably the most powerful man in the world using li’l ol’ Britain to set the stage for future global policy. On the other we witnessed schmaltzy adoring emotion bordering on hysteria as celebrity after celebrity was wheeled out, much to Winfrey’s apparently well-rehearsed surprise, to tell her what they thought of her.

Actor Tom Hanks bellowed out to the huge arena audience that she was “surrounded by nothing but love”, while Simon Cowell, using a pair of specs as a prop presumably to make him look more earnest, said his friendship with the TV hostess was based on truth – “so I love you Oprah”. And she, bottom lip trembling, raindrop-sized tears quivering on her eye ledges, faced the camera full-on and told viewers: “These years with you have enriched my life beyond measure.”

Yes, and enriched her wallet too, because she’s now the richest African-American woman in America.

That aside, it was yet another over-the-top example of that mega-watt screamy sentimental stuff that the Americans do so well and that us sewn-up Brits tend to watch with bemused mesmerised horror.

But actually, our reaction to Obama’s state visit is right up there in the fawning stakes, albeit in a more buttoned-up way.

There’s been wall-to-wall media coverage, a state banquet or two, photoshoots of Obama and his new best friend David Cameron wiff-waffing a ping-pong ball, cook-outs on the Downing Street lawn, reams of fashion pundit analysis about Michelle’s – and the Queen’s, the Duchess of Cambridge’s and Sam Cam’s – dresses and outfits, and the climax of the visit, for politicos at least, that key address in the Palace of Westminster.

The place where Obama received a standing ovation before he had even uttered a word, where a sycophantic Speaker of the Commons, John Bercow, told him how great he was, where the Speaker of the Lords, Baroness Hayman, sounded like a breathy schoolgirl as she gave thanks for the Obama oration, and where current and past prime ministers hung on his every word in let’s-look-serious-in-case-the-cameras-pan-on-me furrowed brow adoration.

It was also where MPs and members of the upper chamber – all of whom you would suppose like to exercise a little self-important aloofness – fell over themselves, probably exercising a bit of undercover pushing and shoving in the process, to shake hands with the great man.

Not, it has to be said, that I blame them. I think Obama’s brilliant, charismatic and a darned sight more together in his head than that buffoon Bush before him. So if I ever met him I would be a bit like a breathy schoolgirl too. I would stop at the screaming though. And I wouldn’t cry either. At least I don’t think so…

• TIME to lob out the Lego and banish the bacon – Danish stuff that is. Although why anyone would want to buy bacon from Denmark when there’s good quality porkie stuff here at home beats me, but that’s another story.

If the Danes can have their regulatory eyes on Marmite then we should rabble rouse and play them at their own game.

Apparently, they have to give approval for any foodstuffs that contain additional minerals or vitamins before allowing it to be sold in Danish shops.

And given that Marmite is awash with vitamins and stuff like folic acid, then it’s a signal for the Danes to put the black nectar firmly in its telescopic sights.

The story about a shop in Copenhagen allegedly being told to remove the stuff from its shelves by Danish foodie-duddies has caused uproar among Marmite fans.

Varying examples of insurgence of been called for, ranging from banishing Danish writer and broadcaster Sandi Toksvig from British shores to setting fire to Arnie Jacobsen furniture in protest.

Love it or hate it, there’s no doubt Marmite promotes a reaction, albeit somewhat extreme in this instance.

I absolutely adore it and reckon the best way to eat it is to spread it thinly on hot toast over a layer of melting butter, then top it with a smear of crunchy peanut butter. Bliss – and a brilliant hangover cure to boot.