It's April and the sky lamp is scorching pasty flesh off the subterranean freaks that populate London. Under the glare of the sun you can spot them emerging from their tunnels cautiously, blinking in the light like survivors of a nuclear blast. Out they come crawling to inspect the smouldering ruins that had once been their homes or tanning salons or wherever the damned mutants reside these days. It must be the end of winter because all anyone bleats about now is the weather and the distinct lack of need for a military grade coat and a portable nuclear reactor when travelling outdoors. It's as though our primitive selves have come out to play and once more we're easily impressed by something as arbitrary as sunlight - but it is an irrepressible feeling of goodness, being able to bask in the sun and unleash the inner reptile.
Weather for the smokers is finally here and no longer does London resemble the set of The Thing. The downside is being trapped in a lift with people so devoid of exposure to the sun that even the slightest reflection of a beam of sunlight causes them to sweat out vital fluids into a puddle of mediocrity. Admittedly I too fall into this category; I can smell myself right now and I'm already practising my apologetic face for when I next step into a confined space - although that face actually warrants more apologies to those subjected to it on account of looking like an emaciated turkey breast that's been marinated in the ghost of a medieval peasant.
Strolling out of work and into the glow of a Friday afternoon is quite the liberating feeling, the sun seems to have a profound impact on the suited and booted worker ants in the city. Whereas before these people would leave the office dazed, confused and prone to vicious outbursts of violence whilst weeping, now under the warming light of the giant nuclear ball - we are united. You can see it when their faces crack into strained smiles in those uncomfortable moments where eyes meet involuntarily and you find yourself smiling back as though you share a common knowledge. It's the silent acknowledgement of war veterans who've both seen their fill of horrors and feel no need to revisit those grim twisted memories - just a knowing nod and a weak smile signals to the other Londoners that you too have survived another week in the blistering confines of hell amidst the congregation of the damned.
Sunlight induced sweat-boxes aside, one fever we can't sweat out in spite of the heat is election fever; a term so hideously crass that I probably just got hired for Fox News by typing it out. You probably just got hired by reading it, for that I can only apologise, but we're collaborators now. When the gibbering flesh-sticks with haircuts and shoes aren't spluttering platitudes about the weather, they're probably sizing you up and judging you like the priests inspecting the lepers, but with less gangrenous infections and more meal deals. So after having my core values analysed by people who have the power to cut off my income, I've established that things are most likely worse than they seem.
I've managed for the most part to avoid coming down with election fever, mostly through sitting in the convalescent room alone recovering from other wounds, also partially due to a distinct lack of faith in anyone who happens to be running for Prime Minister. They're all far too human to wield a UK-sized weapon and whether intentional or not any of them are capable of getting us into the kind of mess that sees wading through charred skeletons and turns rummaging through bins a national sport.
Here's a brief run-down of candidates who would be more likely to secure my vote:
•Paul Chuckle - infinitely more capable than his buffoon of a brother and has made a career out of acting like a tit on TV; politics is the next logical progression for his career - Barry's only holding him back, that and the kind of facial hair that denies him invites to childrens birthday parties.
•ENIAC - the cold ruthless logical efficiency of the first colossus computer is something the axe-wielding Tories could only aspire to, at least with ENIAC every injustice would feel like a calculated judgement as opposed to the scathing personal attacks of our current serpentine overlords.
•An iron - at least this only lets out hot air in a relatively unthreatening fashion, at the time of writing no iron has declared war in human history.
Naturally, you're not electing a man, you're electing a whole party of the fuckers, but with the way the media homes in on the kitchen decor of party leaders, it becomes impossible to separate the face from the ideas. It all helps to obfuscate the already murky lines between celebrity and politician, Boris Johnson and Russell Brand both spring to mind, but with Joey Essex lending support to an ailing invertebrate named Leg - or Clegg or whatever it's called, it's not hard to envisage the 2020 Paul McKenna "I Can Make You Governed" campaign.
Dark days ahead, but back to the equally disturbing present, a recent quiz conducted online on www.whoshouldyouvotefor.com claims to provide the easiest to use quiz to help you decide on which party is closest aligned to your views. It's basic and somewhat reductive - if you're all up for the abolition of children on account of overpopulation and their complete lack of contribution to society, prepare for disappointment. In spite of the simplicity of this quiz, it became very apparent that perhaps we've spent too much time trying to poke around the kitchens of politicians, like the most banal episode of Cribs ever filmed, rather than actually understanding what we're voting for. Many of the people I saw take this quiz failed to grasp a lot of the concepts up for debate; to the point of rendering them as politically valid as a recently concussed farmhand or a shed. I am in no doubt that this is symptomatic of many those condemned to these grey shores.
Never mind the danger of vote-wielding 16 year olds that Clegg-Leg "promises," their happy-go-lucky fuckwit attitude to everything except Clearasil is almost harmless compared to the real danger lurking within - the unwitting fifth column of ignorant people armed with votes is ready to reinstate our peasant-slaying masters despite lacking the depth of political awareness that is usually found in puddles. There are nearly 63.5 million people who will be subjected to the wrath of our own collective idiocy, so maybe if you don't feel like you understand what you're doing on the 7th of May then perhaps you should just stay at home and drop trou and have yourself a good time - at least that way you'll only be fucking yourself.