Even in an intimate setting, by-invitation-only, his personal storm clouds are unrelieved.

At last night’s farewell dinner at The Culver Studios for the three departing members of the City Council, there were 18 guests, 17 of whom reported having a rollicking good time.

The name of the exception was you-know-who.

Who Doesn’t Crave Fun?

It was intended to be a cast party after filming has wrapped up.

Very informal, a loose necktie kind of evening, an indoor picnic with fun as everybody’s goal. Everyone except you-know-who. No imbibing. Just fun. Only one glass of wine appeared anywhere during the 2 1/2-hour evening.

He arrived late for the 6:15 feast.

He left early.

At 8 o’clock, he bowed out with the announcement that he had a doctor’s appointment.

Given his unprecedented two-night filibuster earlier this week — that still does not sound right, a filibuster in Culver City — he was not a magnet when the seating arrangement was organized.

He could not have found a way to shed friends faster if he had pledged to forego bathing until Thanksgiving.

He frequently conducts himself as if there were no one else in the room. His presence can be like staging a funeral on Comedy Central.

Chief Tormentor

Since no one threatened to boycott last evening unless seated beside him, it was decided the safest, least controversial chair was directly between Fire Chief Jeff Eastman and Police Chief Don Pedersen.

Fun not only was the theme, it was the order of the evening — for 17 of the 18 guests.

Steve Rose, Carol Gross and Alan Corlin have banked thousands of memories in the last 8 years on the Council, and they all are rushing to gin up a few more in the scant week and a half they have left.

Since the Brown Act forbade them to talk City Hall business, the entertainment was to go around the dinner table swapping fun stories of the last 8 years.

Are You Kidding?

Unsurprisingly, the laughter crashed when it was No. 18’s turn.

I was once married to a woman who identifies with his rainy day personality. She smiled — briefly, of course — on our wedding day in 1976, and she took a vow of dour by the hour until we were in divorce court a few years later. She was a million laughs, I hear. All but one are unused.

When the storytelling arrow pointed to Mr. Silbiger, he demurred. Or he should have.

He does not value public relations or little else I can think of. Unfun tunnel vision.

Streak Reaches 350

Instead of contributing a funny moment, he talked glumly of being passed over — which starts on Saturday night at the end of Shabbos, but I don’t think that is what he meant.

I may be exaggerating, but my recollection is that he has declared a gripe against one or more of his Council colleagues every one of the 350 Monday nights since he was elected in ’02.

That is a mammoth mountain of ill will to overcome, and believe me he does not have nearly enough time left on the City Council to make his first friend.

He seems to consider all four of his fellow Council members as bullies with a single unspeakable objective.

When Is It My Turn?

At storytelling time, instead of spreading fun, he said — and I paraphrase, by George, now that three of his four rivals have been term-limited, he hopes the new cast will see the light and appoint him to the sub-committees that he covets so he, too, can tell fun stories the next time it is his turn.

My advice would be for all three incoming members — and holdover Scott Malsin — to don their favorite topcoats and ski masks for Monday night meetings because boys, it is going to be cold enough to hang meat in Council Chambers.

I have written several essays in his defense during the last six years. He presented as a permanently beaten-down underdog who would tell a sibling, Smothers-style, “Mom liked you better.”

Charm, Charm, Where Did It Go?

He has interludes of charm, none of which visited him this week when he became the favorite choice for the Worst Performance of the Year statuette.

He is the most disappointing politician I ever have met. His anger-fueled, ill-advised filibuster cost him the goodwill of the last sympathizers.

It could have been a bristling, entertaining exercise. Instead, it was headlined “My Revenge.” Through every step of his puerile, dreadfully boring filibuster, he snapped repeatedly at highly professional, well-intentioned staffers.

The Lowest Blow

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My jaw dropped when he took a verbal whack at the attorney Murray Kane.

He was timed at 4 hours and 10 minutes over 2 meetings, and he managed to make it less pleasant than a midnight visit to a nuclear waste dump.

His petulant, boorish conduct throughout the filibuster merits censure from any brave person willing to weather his withering snapbacks.

Let’s put it this way: If, heaven forbid, Mr. Silbiger and his dog were drowning, and only one could be rescued, it could be a tough choice for staffers.