So tonight I'm supposed to be doing some useful stuff - you know, ironing, cooking, studying, the tasks that make you feel like you've 'done something' with your time, even if it is just to flush it down the Toilet of Chore, along with your youth and enthusiasm - but of course I didn't end up doing that. I ended up watching telly all night and now that it's time for bed, I feel bad that I didn't do something a bit more constructive.
But it wasn't all fun and frivolity. Oh no. Yes, I watched Masterchef Australia and actually got a bit breathless about whether or not their panna cottas were going to turn out okay. Yes, I watched Pineapple Dance Studio and laughed at the irritating wannabe pop star when he was told that his band was okay, but he sucked. But I paid my dues - I actually sat through a bit of The Chancellors Debate.
The title was a tad misleading, as I discovered when I tuned in expecting to see Alistair Darling go up against chancellors plucked from history - say, the postholders from 1972 and 1754. But that wasn't quite the format. Sure, Darling was there and so were his amazing beetling brows that make him look like he's wearing a hat made of cotton wool. But there had been no time-travelling jiggery pokery, in fact it was all rather mundane, which is not what you expect from a politics show at all. The other two goons were fake chancellors - one guy who might, admittedly, become chancellor in May and an old chap who's got more chance of finding a willy in a boob factory.
Well, I say I 'tuned in', it was more a case of whatever had been on previously coming to an end and the Chancellors Debate kind of arriving in my life. Anyway, in an attempt to take the impending governmental raffle seriously, I watched it. For a bit. But it was all just too unsettling and weird and removed from anything resembling real life. Darling just stood there beetling and reminding me oddly of Mr Spoon off of Button Moon, while George Osborne just did what George Osborne does - spoke and moved in an authentic human manner, yet still managed to freak everyone out, like those eerily advanced Japanese humanoid robots that look like they'd sweep your floor, then murder you in your bed with the broom handle. As for the Lib Dem chap, he couldn't have shrieked 'token' more vociferously if he'd come dressed as a poker chip.
So anyway, I tried. I directed my eyes at the telly. I left my ears wide open and let stuff come in through them. I instructed my brain to stop scratching its arse and make connections based on what was being shouted at it. But it was just impossible. Because nobody, NOBODY knows what they're talking about. Not even they know what they're talking about, nor the presenter, nor the people in the audience. The reason the country's economy is such a huge steaming pile of crud is because no one ever knew what they were talking about to begin with, yet no one had the gumption to admit it. And that's how politics works. It's a massive case of the Emperor's new clothes, as made by George at Asda. Everyone talks hot air, a load of guffy gas that is somehow transformed into solids by everyone else's wishful thinking.
Well, they can keep it. It's not important or anything. And anyway, Road Wars is on. Yeah, a policeman kicking a druggy in the head, yeah! There's real politics for you.
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