Every four or five years, the British public have the chance to take part in a great democratic festival. Excitement builds as the day approaches, when all the people of the land join together to decide the future of their beloved country. After the people fulfil their loyal duty, a huge fiesta begins, full of marching bands, tickertape and colourful balloons, celebrating the wonders of democracy, people power and self-rule.

Yeah, well, in reality it is not quite like that. Those of us with a sense of duty troop down to the local polling station on our way to, or from, work - if we can spare the time. The venue for this momentous decision is usually a run-down community centre, inside which we must squeeze into a chipboard cubbyhole, pick up a blunt pencil on a bit of string and plonk our cross next to the name of the person who may, or may not be, as bad as all the rest.

More than 60 per cent of 'can't-be-arsed Britain' participated in the election, but . . .  read »