Well, I am delighted to confirm that I shall be taking part in the general election leadership debates on the telly. As a matter of fact, you all are. You’ll be getting your call-up papers through the door any day now.
Secret memos unearthed by my pal Mags, who does a bit of office cleaning, have revealed that the broadcasters got so confused by the “will-they-won’t-they, cor blimey, have we included the Raving Monster Loony Party to join in?” that they’ve decided to ditch the talking suits.
The top-secret document said, we’ve all had enough of the spun, polished and professional word-burping sound biters. Lets get the voters in. All of them.
Obviously, this means the studio will have to be huge. Why, in Scotland alone I reckon they’ll have to bung us all in Hampden, Murrayfield and all the stuff left over from the Commonwealth Games.
Poor old David Dimbledore will have have his work cut out. For one thing, he’ll have to contend with my fellow Glaswegians high on a dangerous combination of over-excitement and Irn-Bru sugar rushes. They’ll need translators.
We’ll be great. This gassing on about politics is a doddle. It’s just the politicians who pretend its hard work.
Take the economy. There’s no money they say. We can’t afford nurses for the health service and Apple have sponsored an app to show you how to take your own appendix out.
Teachers ? Pah! Luxury.
No dosh for such fripperies these days, unless, of course, we want to send jet fighters to patrol the skies of Syria, Libya or perhaps Narnia, if the Ice Queen and Aslan have been kicking off again, and then suddenly, jings, what’s this we found down the back of the couch? Why, only enough spare change out of George Osbourne’s trouser pocket to keep a Tornado in the skies for an hour – £45,000, since you ask, and that’s without it firing off one of those rocket doodahs.
That’s an awful lot of teachers and home helps right there. So there would seem to be money somewhere.
Sometimes I think the Treasury is like a one of those lovely old dears you hear about who live in terrible squalor in the midst of glorious if tattered furniture with a fortune in the bank they just won’t spend.
Y’see? That’s us fixed the economy. Why, I feel positively Greek.
Just think what we could solve if we all chipped in with some ideas. Look at the folks in London, the bus drivers and the hospital ward cleaners, people who do real jobs to improve real lives.
They can’t rent or buy because houses are so expensive, but at the same time, other (incredibly rich) people are buying up houses and not living in them.
Perhaps they’ve forgotten they’ve bought them, as one does.
Lord knows the number of times I’ve wandered up to the till and realised I’ve absent-mindedly dropped a Knightsbridge 17-bed mansion with underground cinema, spa and missile defence system into my trolley.
So let’s take the responsibility for the upkeep of all this empty property off these poor forgetful people, carve the 17 bedrooms into flats and hand them over to the workers. Problem solved.
Let’s get back to the half measures with TV times
On the subject of television, why are all our programmes an hour long now?
Back in the day when it was permissible to present the gurning horror that was Benny Hill chase and grope scantily clad young ladies around trees at high speed as family entertainment, programmes were a watchable 25 minutes.Even the Moon landings tended to get the half-hour treatment.
This was just enough time to drink a mug of tea, eat two Rich Tea biscuits, then have the debrief chat and visit the loo.
Now everything’s an hour. It’s not a problem on the advert-carrying channels, but on the BBC, you have an issue. Tea before? Tea during? When loo break?
Well, if half an hour was good enough for Panorama, World in Action and Tomorrow’s World, then surely it’s good enough for some reality programme featuring a bunch of forgettable celebrities trying to get out of the jungle?
In fact, let’s extend the principle. A charming bloke called Oliver Escobar explained this funky concept to me. Let’s not just rant about politics. Lets do it.
Let’s make being a politician like being on jury duty. Every citizen has to ante up and serve a bit of time running the joint, from councillor to MSP, MP and heck, House of Lords, although I’m not sure what it is they actually do.
Four years, all expenses paid, unless it involves duck houses, and a shot on Question Time.
Of course, by this principle, we also get to rotate being Queen. I’m not so keen on that.
There is no way on this planet I’m being that plonker Andrew’s mum.