Politics, Politics, Politics!

What follows is a column submitted for the TV section of the Leeds Student newspaper. I was asked for "some blogging for the television section online, such as commenting on the debates, who you thought was good, picking out key points for students, obviously being as impartial as possible and trying to do it from an interesting and different perspective. Also if you think the debates are a good idea to reaching out to modern society, etcetc."
I hope they like it.

So, the United Kingdom's first televised leadership debates for a general election have been and gone. 90 minutes of what was promised to be a landmark event in British political history, and what did we learn? Well, that David Cameron really likes the word 'Quango', Nick Clegg loves alliteration, and Gordon Brown is so desperate for friends he'll try and agree with anything the Liberal Democrats will say. The only real upshot from the debate is that in a month we're about to be governed by one of three fairly average men. Well, one of two fairly average men really. Clegg made an impressive stand, but still no-one can believe that a vote for the Liberals is anything more that a waste of a ballot.

Described by some as the most tedious Kraftwerk gig ever, the debate was notable for its complete lack of any real moments of interest. Where were the slick putdowns? Where were the special effects? The whooping crowds and tear-laden backstories? If we're going to descend into a consumerist, post-X-Factor culture, I want to see some goddamn theatrics. I mean, I'm all for political engagement and democracy and that, but this television. And politics could be a bigger drama that Eastenders, if it weren't so utterly tedious. With that in mind, I've got some ideas for how to make the debates better for television.

To the sound of either James Blunt or Take That, we see a close-up of David Cameron as he tearfully recounts the loss of his son. “I know he's gone, but I can feel him looking down on us now. I'm going to win this election for him” he sobs, Samantha gazing wetly at the camera and backing up everything he says with a well timed sob and a dab at the eye with a monogrammed handkerchief. “Oh, and did I mention my wife's pregnant again?” Next, a soft-focus flashback sequence chronicles each man's rise to fame, with images of Gordon Brown and Tony Blair holding hands and gazing into each others eyes on crisp autumn mornings back in 1997. A dimly-lit Gordon sits in a television studio clutching a bottle of whisky, knocking back painkillers and anti-depressants. “They were good times, back then,” he whispers, head bowed. “Me an' Tony, jes' the way it was s'posed tae be.” He takes a swig at the bottle and looks into the camera. “Then came 9/11, Iraq, an' the economic crisis. I jes' feel I've got one las' shot at the job.” He goes on to perform 'I Dreamed A Dream' and becomes an overnight Youtube sensation.

“I'm sorry, Nick. You've got the confidence, and you've got the talent. I just don't think we can take you to finals” says Simon Cowell from his judging booth after the Liberal Democrat leader has just given an impassion spiel on financing social care for the elderly. “Oh,” Nick says, crestfallen. “I've come so far!” he blubs to Holly Willoughby later in the dressing room. “And now I've gone and thrown it all away.”

Hell, instead of a live debate, we should pitch the men in a three-way gladiator fight to the death. Cue Gordon Brown walking out, a lonely and dishevelled man, to a baying crowd from an archway of spluttering fireworks. Prof Brian Cox performs a now-deeply-ironic solo keyboard version of “Things Can Only Get Better”. Brown roars at the crowd, flexing his brawny Scottish biceps like Mickey Rourke in The Wrestler. “Are ye happy noo?” he wails as the mob begins to shout death threats, incensed by 13 years of New Labour's failings. “Ye dinnae ken wha' it's like at the top!” he cries, tears mingling with the spittle hanging off the crags in his work-lined face. “It's nae ma faul' Blair left this country in such a kerfuffle! I did wha' I could!” He works himself into a manic rage in preparation for combat, while Cameron strides out in a crushed velvet gown, accompanied by an army of PR men, body language coaches and masseurs. He throws off his cape and produces a fencing foil. “En Garde, Gordon. We can't go on like this”. 

 

Suddenly, from the back of the auditorium, Kid Clegg bursts in to the audiences surprise, wearing a pair of yellow shorts and a mean look in his eye. Vince Cable stands at the side of the ring in a ratty old turquoise tracksuit and flatcap, holding a towel and shouting words of encouragement at his young protégé. “Gaw ahn sahn!” he shouts, soggy rollup hanging precariously out the side of his mouth, “Give 'em the old one two! Whip out the ol' Trident line a few times!”

The ensuing brawl is over disappointingly quickly. Covered in each others' blood, the men lie broken and no real winner can be found. “Are you not entertained?” Alastair Stewart shouts at the audience. “Are you not entertained? Is this not why you are here?” A hung parliament is declared and the recession lasts another 20 years.

Hey, it may not be dignified, but it'd get me voting.