Right, Mr Clegg. You've had your talks; talks with CallMeDave, talks with your backbenchers, talks with ol' man Cable, with Paddy Pantsdown, and doubtless with the luscious Miriam.

And your party colleagues have been holed up with top Tories in non-smoke-filled rooms for the last 72 hours, popping out only to declare endless declarations of mutual love to the press.

You've also, by your part in these endless discussions, ensuring that we still have no PM, no government and no idea what the fuck is going on, inadvertently shown us what a post-PR world will look like. Are we really going to join Italy, Belgium and all those other poor sods in having this behind-closed-doors squabbling every 4 or 5 years?

But now it's time to make your mind up.

Whatever it is that the Tories have put on the table, whether it's PR, AV or fondue set and a fully catered funeral in Trinidad, is what you're going to have to accept. You're not going to get all the things your party wants, and nor should you: you came third in the race, for fuck's sake, in both seats and popular votes.

So you should accept whatever the party that got nearly twice the popular vote yours did - and holds 5 times as many seats - offers and be glad of it.

After all, Cleggy, it's not like you've got any other choices, is it?

What are you gonna do if Dave won't give you all the presents on your list? Try to form the world's smallest minority government with your 57 seats? Don't think so.

Head back into opposition, back to your seat twenty places down from the 'real' leader of the 'real 'opposition, with everyone talking over your little bonus questions in PMQ's? Nah.

Go into a coalition with Labour? Yeah, right. Make yourself the second most unpopular man in political history by propping up the most unpopular man in political history? That would be ... what's the word? ... bold. Don't expect us to take any notice of your muffled screams as Brown , Balls and Mandy give you and your party the most comprehensive fucking over you've ever had.

Then, as you lie bleeding in the gutter, watch them turn upon each other and tear themselves, their party and the new coalition to pieces. And don't expect to regain 57 seats in the inevitable General Election - probably in July - you'll be lucky to get 7 as part of a LibLab coalition.

No, unfortunately for you, you've only got one option - go along with those terrible Tories. And, as the Tory boys slowly begin to realise that over the coming hours, you're going to find there are fewer and fewer goodies on the table.

Your only chance to get any representation, to get any of your policies enacted, to have any say at all, to have any ability to limit what the Tories do, is to climb into bed with them, lie back and think of the United Kingdom.

Get on with it, for fucks sake.

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The nation has been able to forget its woes, ignore the freezing weather and celebrate joyfully, at the wonderful news that .. err .. there are going to be three televised debates between Messrs. Brown, Cameron and Clegg. Hurrah!

Or, perhaps more accurately, meh. What a total waste of fucking time.

The TV companies - BBC, Sky and ITV are doubtless rubbing their fat, well-manicured hands with glee at the extra viewers - and extra revenue - these 'historic' events will bring.

Boy, are they in for a surprise.

Do you know what, guys? Not as many people as you might think are going to be keen to sit and watch three middle-aged men in expensive suits lying to each other. No, really.

The few that might will be turned right off the idea by the endless gravelly-voiced adverts which will be pounded into our skulls for fucking weeks beforehand: "Coming soon. For the first time in British History ...". You can hear it now.

The debates themselves will, of course, be virtually devoid of content, and utterly meaningless.

Brown will be dosed to the eyeballs with a cocktail of drugs, and his script will have been crafted carefully by a vast team of writers.

He's never been recorded as having answered a question put to him, and this won't be the occasion he starts, will it? He'll read out an enormous list of supposed Labour achievements, followed by a shorter list of lies about what the eevil Tories plan to do, then his mouth wil slump open, and we'll all be none the wiser.

CallMeDave will look very shiny, and will bang on about boom 'n' bust, and perhaps slip in a mention of his wind turbine. But guess what, CMD? We've heard all that before.

The boy Clegg will work himself into a lather of fake-indignation about something - Iraq, or Joanna Lumley's little chums, or something Vince told him about banks that he doesn't really understand, and find himself trapped in a single issue with nothing else to add. The two other leaders will probably starting chatting to each other while he's speaking.

And, then, when the bovine public have watched this tedious festival of soundbites, what will they do?

Imagine if one of these talking heads actually did impress someone? "I like that nice Mr Cameron, I'm gonna to vote for 'im".

Well, dear voter, unfortunately you can't just press the Red Button on your Sky remote. That won't cast a vote this time.

And no, Ant 'n' Dec won't be popping up with an 0800 number for you to phone either.

Did you think you should text the word 'CallMeDave' to the BBC? No, that won't work either. There's only one way to vote in this particular piece of reality TV.

What you've got to do is make sure your name is on something called the electoral register, and keep a safe hold of the postcard that was sent to you and then, on the day that .... Hello?  Hello?

Oh, they've gone.


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