Andy Munro gets angry.

Of the many, many things that get my goat (which doesn’t include old sayings), it seems topical to start with elections. Of course, I realise people have died in getting us all a vote but I’m beginning to wonder what on earth for?

It’s some time since we’ve had such an inept bunch to choose from. The Beeb don’t make it any easier by just giving the politicos more opportunities to spin their plates digging no deeper than a BCC highways department pothole repair team. Newspapers are as bad although, in their case, they pin their colours shamelessly to the mast, pouring limitless amounts of scorn on the opposition.

To many (and probably me) it will come down to a combination of which party gives my family the best deal and what I think of the leaders. Like football, a good leader can make a silk purse out of a sows ear…think Gary Rowett and Tim Sherwood. Unfortunately, we’ve got the stereotypical Tory boy in David Cameron (never mind the braying band of Hague, Osborne and Duncan-Smith), the bumbling Ed Milliband backed by that slimeball aptly named Balls (who makes Cameron look sincere), the dithering Nick Clegg, Roberta Roy who wants independence through devious means and farcical Farage who is becoming a parody of Al Murray instead of the other way round.

On the subject of comedians, it’s worrying that Russell Brand (definitely a house with nobody at home) backs Ed and even more worryingly seems to be held in high esteem in a recent student survey. God help us in the future on that one.

It’s certainly a difficult choice, not made any easier by the torrent of political junk mail pouring through my letterbox. I still haven’t decided and this isn’t helped by the left wing intelligentsia making me want to puke as most of them, in smashing jobs or with smashing pensions, decry the supposed Tory money man mantra.

I may well still decide to vote for Red Ed but it would have been a far easier decision if his more talented and statesman-like brother, who I had the pleasure of once meeting, was in the driving seat.

Hung Parliament? I’d hang ’em all!