British election a dreary and dull affair

Ben Trovato : I am appalled at the manner the British conducted themselves in this last election. The inexplicable lack of violence, coupled with a blind devotion to moral principles, sickened me.

Too much tea and democracy have sucked all the passion out of British politics. Even the leaders of the three main parties look like prototype people. Watching Gordon Brown leaving 10 Downing Street on Wednesday night for the last time was about as exciting as watching a David Attenborough special on the nocturnal mating habits of the whelk.

It's hard to believe this is the same nation that gave us such lovable rogues as Guy Fawkes, Joe Strummer and Jack the Ripper.

The last time Britain had a decent political revolution was in 1642, for God's sake. Where were they when governments were falling across Europe? What were they doing as angry French proles gnawed on the skulls of the aristocracy? Hunting foxes for fun, inventing the sandwich and trying to get Jane bloody Austen into bed, that's what. Pathetic.

Brown should have barricaded himself inside Number 10 and held the staff hostage. The peasants of strongholds like Barking, Hackney and Lambeth should have gone on the march, burning and pillaging their way into central London, yelling incoherent and irrational demands like true Labour supporters. Instead, what we got was the Brown family - who couldn't be less brown if they tried - shuffling through the front door and sloping off down the street. I found myself shouting: "Quick! He's getting away!" But there were no lynch mobs baying for his head. No hastily assembled guillotine on the corner. Just a fast car waiting to whisk him and his miserable family to obscurity.

It was all a bit embarrassing, really. We don't even treat our white people like that. Couldn't they have sent a car round the back? Did he really have to do the walk of shame for all the world to see? The look on his poor kids' faces. First, our Dad loses his job, now we get kicked out the house. Bastards.

Meanwhile, among the Caribbean crack houses of Notting Hill, David Cameron left his modest semi on Thursday morning for his first day at work as prime minister. A knot of excited reporters shouted - not abuse, as one might expect - questions like: "Are you nervous?" and "When are the movers coming?" He thanked the fawning pack for helping him win the election and then, ignoring them completely, roared away in his bullet-proof Jaguar. Voting over, he no longer needed the media and could go back to treating them like the vermin that they are.

Later, dripping smug all over the steps of Number 10, Cameron leaned over to give his pregnant wife a kiss for the cameras. She recoiled, as if to say: "You've done enough damage."

Meanwhile, Nick Clegg, mewling leader of the Liberal Democrats, is looking forward to the prime minister taking him out once a week and playing with him. As a special treat for the suckling's birthday, Cameron has agreed to let him run the country for an hour or so. Well, pretend to, anyway.