Kool Aid!! More Kool Aid!!!

The UK election battle is raging. From the plains of Helmand Province to the door of Number 10, where Gordo clings to power like a crazed gibbon hugging a tree. He'll have to be carried out of there, gibbering and drooling in a locked cage, if Dave and that other guy are going to get him out at all.

It's hot and dangerous work. New Labour goons roam the surrounding streets in ugly bands, some desperate to get their hands on  private loot  to fill the empty public coffers, others offering themselves for hire like cheap mercenaries. While deep down in the bunker, amidst the clamour and roar of media briefings, timeshare-style cold-calling, billboard banter and sound-bite skirmishes, staffers scream "Kool Aid!! We need more Kool Aid"!!! Dreading that without opiate, they and the masses will stop believing.

It would be time to flee, if the unions hadn't seized control of the roads, railways and the airways. So we're stuck in the battle zone, cowering behind any solid object we can find, rags stuffed in our ears against the hideous din. Only the insane and the very brave will risk the lethal dash to the polling booth.

On May 7, we'll know how those numbers stack up.