You know what the problem with democracy is? I mean apart from giving voting cards to pretty much anybody these days. And setting aside the appalling inertia that afflicts vast numbers of the population on polling day such that they can’t haul their indolent carcasses two hundred yards down the street to a draughty Portakabin to spell “x”. And, while we’re about it, the fact that my team doesn’t always win. Apart from all that, the problem with democracy is that its most notable practitioners render it so very dreary.

Democracy, we are told by thoughtful philosophers and bellicose Western statesmen alike, is humanity’s glittering grail — a state of grace in which we should be profoundly grateful to exist. And of course they are correct. It’s just that it’s hard to keep hold of that idea when you open your newspaper and witness the bleak acres of print given over to speculation about the preliminary machinations in an as-yet-undeclared phoney war to be fought at a time to be determined before a putative but by no means certain Labour leadership contest that may or may not take place after the current Prime Minister’s resignation announcement. Whenever that happens to be.

There is little in the way of excitement to be had here. Watching Charles Clarke or Alan Milburn or whoever it is this week waddle about studiedly not declaring their hand with all the lightness and efficacy of a fat man attempting anonymity at a Venetian masque ball has limited charms. But the worst of it is that it only serves to make an already bored and unimpressed public even more alienated from politics.

Clearly, who leads the party of government ought to be of tremendous interest to everybody, and it probably would be if those involved in deciding who that leader will be just sodding well get on with it. But as things stand, months and — oh, dear Heaven — more months of tedious gossip and wearisome posturing mean that even subscribers to Prospect must be bleeding from the eyes with the boredom and frustration of it all.

The main problem is that it is personality and not policy that is ultimately at the centre of leadership contests. This is not something that is likely to go down well with the public at large because, rightly or wrongly, the prevailing view is that politicians as a breed are a hissing pitful of no-marks and try-hards. Their number can be expressed in a Venn diagram of two sets. One set represents those who were bullied at school, the other set represents patrician ne’er-do-wells and the intersection represents the Conservative front bench, along with a good number of those sitting across from them.

Since you ask, my view of politicians is more charitable: I have always seen the House of Commons as being like an open mic poetry night — blessed with the occasional repository of real talent and passion, but by and large made up of individuals who simply crave a public platform on which to stand while working through a few personal issues that might be better dealt with in either therapy or the pub.

But having these plodding nuisances wallop on about themselves — and fill interviews with words like “vision” and “progress” and “rigorous” and “debate” and “very able Chancellor indeed” for the lion’s share of the present geological age — all in the name of democracy, makes absolute monarchy look like a charming proposition.

My solution, then: parties should no longer conduct leadership elections in public; rather, they should take their cue from the standard automobile industry procedure for launching car models. Whoever is taking over as PM should be a huge secret, kept under wraps at great effort and expense until finally revealed to an inevitably intrigued public from beneath a satin drape on a revolving carousel display at the NEC, surrounded by thong-clad lovelies and Jeremy Clarkson.

The method politicians use to decide on the leader matters less — elections, bewilderingly arcane physical trials, take your pick. But if I might make a suggestion here: they could both prevent further tarnishing of the jewel that is democracy and obtain massive public approval by stripping the candidates to their underwear, locking them in a room with some rocks and a few basic supplies and seeing which one staggers out with the conch.

Perhaps next Tuesday would suit?

Chris Addison is a writer, actor and stand-up comedian

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