It's that time in the annual cycle when you are disturbed as you attempt to prepare a spag bol, by a ring at the door. Expecting Amazon to have dumped and jumped once more, you run to the entrance, scantily clad in boxer shorts and the ‘grumpy old fart’ t-shirt the kids gave you for Father’s Day, to be met by a grinning politico.

They are instantly recognisable with the permagrin tattooed on their faces which must be painful as they don’t portray that look in an unguarded moment when standing on the street afterwards and logging their uninvited house call.

But this year we have local elections and, no doubt, a general election when the lack of interest, sanity or gumption of any of the major parties over the previous half a decade is expected to be forgotten about as they tell you what they will do should they get in power.

The reality is their voice will be directed by what their parties tell them to do, thus negating any local issues raised by old Miss Miggins on the doorstep as to the lack of policing, the state of healthcare, the costs of living crisis and, well, I could go on but shan’t as I don’t want my blood pressure to take another turn for the worse (and doctor's appointments remain as rare as rocking horse excrement).

The Tory candidate will no doubt be a thin white man wearing a shirt, possibly of a Barbour vintage, as he tries to get down with his peoples, despite the leather brogues marking him out as a stereotypical rugger-bugger.

Labour candidates always have glasses and a demonic grin on their faces as any questioning over previous policy, or non-existent plans for the future, or whether they supported Corbyn? or why didn’t Starmer prosecute Saville? are swiftly brushed over as their excuses are made, and they make haste to an easier house who won't dare to challenge them, which is really the point of them being there in the first place, isn’t it?

The Lib Dems will be the brightest buttons, both with their attire and their demeanour, as they attempt, against hope, to buck the trend and persuade enough people that they are again the second political coming when, in reality, their small handful of MPs led by a guy who is as effective as a chocolate teapot, will be taken to the cleaners as they big up their chances before abject failure (they are the political equivalent of Tottenham Hotspur).

But then one of them will, by saying the right thing to enough of the gullible, find themselves in parliament for a term as they cash in their cheques as they continue their careers as they have before, by being brainwashed and not daring to go against their cult-like political leaders.

They will become obsessed with tweeting about ‘wrongs!,’ as they thrash their heads up and down like braying donkeys when their leader utters some nonsense in the house in the hope they will be noticed and elevated into the shadow/cabinet.

They will roll their sleeves up to the point of losing blood supply from the elbow down as they pretend to like their local football team before being caught on camera enquiring as to which team Besty plays for these days, as they acquire a new wardrobe which looks as if their personal shopper is Stevie Wonder.

And on it will go, as they embarrass themselves despite never really being in on the joke as the next wave of wanabees surround them and bray and clap and cheer at even the most incompetent utterance in the hope that they too will be selected in the future to dress like a clown and act much the same.

Meanwhile, we wonder why we bothered answering the door in the first place and instead run the risk of our Amazon package getting nicked by the local crackhead for the 12th time this calendar year…

  • Brett Ellis is a teacher