KEY POINTS:
Television is an amazing medium. And the people who work in television are sooooooooo nice. They are. They really are. They care. They really do.
And the thing is, they don't need to.
Sustained as they are by the reliable intellect of the autocue, the constant praise
of fawning publicists and salaries slightly larger than Zimbabwe's GDP, they could be forgiven for assuming that the universe consisted entirely of people like themselves; glamorous, hyper-dentured folk whose celebrity teeth and champagne smiles are weekly on display in that page of fabulous party pics which so colourfully enhances the gossip section of The Harold on Sunday's View magazine.
But despite the exotic nature of their existence and despite the fact they are spared the dreary ordeal of life in our world, the real world, the Planet of the Pillock People, these oh-so-lovely telly types remain kindly disposed towards us lesser breeds, the common old knuckle-dragging ordinary sods and clods.
Look, they talk to us, albeit only on screen. They smile at us, albeit only when the autocue tells them they should. Heck, they even do our thinking for us, albeit with the help of others.
As was evident after that heated "Shut your face or I'll smack you in the kisser" debate shemozzle they wowed us with on Tuesday night.
Apparently, this was a terribly important event. Even before it had occurred, there'd been an orgy of comment as to its significance. Words like "defining, crucial, critical" and "counter-intuitive" had peppered the airwaves.
For some strange reason, words like "rhubarb, bollocks" and "regiments of cliches marching as to war" had not peppered our airwaves but beyond noting that, no further comment will be made.
The point is, those who know knew with a Newtonian certainty that it was essential for both protagonists in the debate to do well. Failure to meet the experts' expectations would have seen either of them instantly become a local version of the Republican's vice-presidential candidate, doomed to start Palin into insignificance.
So there we were on Tuesday evening, in our caves, watching the flickering screen, staring at two politicians, one interlocutor and a ghost audience of persons like ourselves, silent, dark and, very sensibly, not permitted to do so much as break wind or clear their Pillock throats.
So the audience just sat there like serried rows of rigid cadavers and that was that.
Well, no, not quite; there were also three journalists involved who basically did what journalists do best, that is to say they looked plausibly intelligent while contributing almost nothing to our greater understanding.
And the questions were asked and the politicians answered them, usually simultaneously, and then it was over.
At which point, our lovely, considerate telly chummies proved they really do care about their feral and dispossessed audience.
Knowing full well that we can't think for ourselves, they wheeled in vast battalions of commentators to save us the trouble. And the commentators commentated commentarily, in detail and ad nauseam, and it wasn't long before the nation was in a somnambulant coma, as effectively sedated as by any drug.
Not to be outdone, radio floated its own flotilla of commentators next day and the front pages of our papers were crammed with the opinions of people none of us have ever met, all giving us their verdict and picking their victor.
The commentator's consensus seemed to be that one of the politicians had won, mainly because he hadn't lost. Any pillock daring to dissent would presumably have felt as guilty and unpopular as a libertarian on Wall St.
Much was made by the commentators of the viewers' poll, notwithstanding the fact it was as reliable as the methods used in China to keep melamine out of milk.
Did you hear any shouting at home after the debate? It was probably us Pillocks telling the commentators - and their hosts - to "Shut up, for crying out loud!"
Maybe we Pillocks can think for ourselves after all.
