One is reminded, inevitably, of the time Charles II disguised himself as a servant to flee Worcester, though one suspects the seventeenth-century escape lacked the sheer, crushing banality of deploying a spare Boeing 747. Following a NATO summit in Turkey, an American leader has allegedly executed the oldest trick in the diplomatic handbook: slipping out the back door while the press corps dutifully boards a hollow decoy.

Yet, as with all modern remakes of classic farces, the audience participation is the truly depressing element. Reports indicate that twelve hours into the transatlantic return flight, the captive press pool has yet to notice the total absence of a head of state. Having grown thoroughly accustomed to shouting questions into an unresponsive void, several seasoned correspondents are currently taking furious shorthand of the ambient air conditioning hum emanating from an empty, leather-upholstered swivel chair in the executive cabin.

“To be perfectly frank, the upholstery is staying relentlessly on message,” noted one exhausted mid-level cabin steward who drew the short straw of guarding the vacant suite. “We did consider throwing a red tie over the headrest to maintain morale, but they seem quite satisfied filing breaking news alerts on the fluctuating cabin pressure.”

It is a fitting metaphor for the age. When the aircraft finally touches down, one assumes the journalists will dutifully disembark, thank the empty doorway for its time, and brace themselves for the inevitable, deeply uninspired sequel.