Oh happy days- It's time to vote for the next Prime Minister again.

Oh happy days- it's time to vote for the next Prime Minister again.

Aha! Are we ready? How many times do we have to go through this democratic process? At times you begin to wonder whether it's deliberate and intentional. Not that I've any personal objection to the very concept of a General Election. It is though such a loathsome ordeal. It's this desperate plea for approval, this anguished need for attention, this massaging of a hundred egos, this relentless journey around the back streets and roads of Britain, this bellowing, bawling shouting match, the yaboo sucks mentality, this deafening cacophony of a thousand voices from a thousand vans.

 It is this pathetic intrusion into our souls, the shouting and caterwauling, the acoustic artillery that just goes on and on. It is General Election day and by this evening, the whole of Britain may be heartily sick of voting, unbearably confrontational politics and all of those annoyingly persuasive words that just sound so hollow, contrived and stage managed that maybe the whole schedule should be changed, perhaps to an all night quiz show or a whole night devoted to reality TV. On second thoughts I think I'd rather watch the General Election. Or maybe I'm just a crusty, crotchety cynic who just doesn't care anymore. But I do care passionately and I have voted and to be honest you'll never know just how good it felt.

So how are you doing at the moment? Are you experiencing election battle fatigue or are you looking forward to tomorrow morning when all this fuss and commotion is over? Maybe then we can all just pull a veil over everything that is argumentative, controversial and contentious. Maybe then we can eat our breakfast, tea, lunch and dinner without being told what to do later on this evening. Maybe then we can take our ear plugs out of our ears and listen to something altogether more pleasant, relaxing and amusing.

At the moment you're reminded of one of those ugly bear pits, where political parties of all colours spend all of their time scratching each other's eyes, pulling each other's hair out and struggling to be heard above the maddening maelstrom of chattering, bickering and quarrelling. If this is democracy at work then maybe we should just switch off our TV's and radios, read a good book or listen to our cherished collection of vinyl records. Because quite frankly those pestering politicians are undermining our intelligence, blatantly blackmailing us and, it has to be said, driven us crazy. When will it ever end but it will and by tomorrow morning most of us will be back where we before the General Election.

And yet the continuous background noises keep rumbling on. At the moment the BBC's highly esteemed and seasoned political commentator David Dimbleby is getting in some much needed shut eye. Or at least I think he is. How else to explain the stamina, endurance and durability of this remarkable man? Every five years Dimbleby is contracted to stay up all night in his studio trying to make sense of the one night of the year which fails to do so quite miserably and yet your heart goes out to a man who looks like a teacher trying helplessly to keep their classroom quiet.

But this election is different for Dimbleby because this time a General Election has caught him out. This was a snap election and this one must have left him cruelly under prepared. Now it may be that all of our great TV presenters and broadcasters must have an internal mechanism whereby if something of note does happen in the country they can still ad lib or improvise or just remain coolly professional when everybody else may be losing their head.

Poor David. Do you think he knew that at any given moment that Theresa May would just suddenly announce a General Election? You'd have thought that May would have given Dimbleby shorter notice than that because quite clearly he's been caught on the hop. There were no warnings, no serious announcements from 10 Downing Street and nothing to suggest that a wild evening of political conflict, full on engagement and non stop dialogue would be thrown upon us out of the blue. There were no adequate explanations and nobody knew. Or maybe they did and the nation were taken by complete surprise.

Still I'm sure Mr Dimbleby will look his impeccable best tonight under the powerful glare of the BBC cameras. It won't be easy and even now he may well be rehearsing his lines, limbering up mentally, straightening his shirt and tie and then taking deep breaths. How he must dread this one night of the year. It is the most daunting of all assignments but one he always seems to handle with the most assured aplomb.

Every week on Question Time, Dimbleby ploughs his way through an arduous hour of finger pointing, name calling, childish vindictiveness and that incessant barrage of hostility that is the programme's premise or seemingly so. Every week he sits there like a High Court judge without the wig, gently presiding over political ping pong, as tempers fray, emotions reach boiling point without quite pouring over and then there is a general TV discussion that never seems to get anywhere.  

The Dimbleby face is rather a sad and drained one. Every Thursday there is a pasty faced, whiter than white look, white as a sheet or ghost, eyes hooded and haunted looking, cheeks puffy, a wan and forlorn man who looks as though he hasn't seen a bed for quite a while. You find yourself consumed with admiration for him because quite clearly here is a man who gives his life unstintingly and devotedly to the kind of TV programme that anybody else would simply ignore with a barge pole. Who would be some neutral go between in a political clash of the Titans and then point a despairing finger at the audience as if he'd rather be a million miles away from a BBC studio.

So there you have it folks. It's time to roll up for that great piece of TV grandstanding, showboating and just a little nonsensical tomfoolery. The impartial among us will miss the Peter Snow swingometer, Robin Day's bow tie and those moments in the studio when all the communication goes haywire which it still does but not with the same frequency.

This year Jeremy Vine will be responsible for all of those wizzy, busy graphics with their blocks of votes, percentages, swings to the right, swings to the right and the swings that go right up into the air and land on the roundabouts. Oh what a bizarre evening it is. Oh for the complexities of the Election night, the whole Brexit saga of varying textures such as soft and hard Brexit. Are any of us more enlightened than we were before? It may be advisable to put the kettle on at regular intervals and just order several deliveries of pizza. It could be a very long night. Now let me see. I wonder what the likes of Disraeli or Gladstone would have made of the modern game of political charades? Mind you I'm sure I saw their Twitter accounts recently.