It's General Election Day.

It's General Election Day.

So here we are again folks. You must have thought the day would never arrive but it has and you'd be forgiven for thinking that Christmas Day was today rather than the event itself which is just under a fortnight away. But still we find ourselves in a terrible old pickle. Boris Johnson, the prospective Prime Minister in waiting, started the day as a milkman and then finished the day praying that it hadn't been spilt. It's General Election Day everybody. Whoopee! Let's rush out to vote in an urgent hurry because this is just too good to be true. Some of us are trying desperately hard to curb our enthusiasm.

Now who is it going to be? The last couple of weeks have been so bewildering that some of us are lost in a time warp. Now there may be a temptation to go for the odds on favourite Stanley Baldwin or even David Lloyd George. You wouldn't entirely discount Disraeli or Gladstone since a history lesson may be the order of  the day. But this may be the time to wipe your eyes and come back to the present day.

A vast majority of the British population though will probably breathe a huge sigh of relief come tomorrow morning when we should know the identity of the next British Prime Minister. As if any of us really care that intensely one way or the other. How we ever got ourselves into this fine old mess, this dreadful predicament, is anybody's guess. Even now you can see the good people of Britain shaking their heads, scratching their hair, screaming their exasperation and wondering if it'll ever end. This whole Brexit fiasco could have lasted indefinitely and perhaps a General Election was the only answer, a wonderful distraction.

We are all heartily sick of this wretched hot air, this verbal diarrhoea, this endless artillery of nonsensical drivel and balderdash. this embarrassing Punch and Judy show, the sheer preposterousness of it all, this relentless bullying. What started as a request to the country for a simple withdrawal from the European Union three years ago has rapidly degenerated into some hilarious, end of pier seaside show where the audience find it hard to know whether they should laugh or just look on with stunned astonishment.

What is clear is that British politics has now scraped the bottom of the barrel, reaching the lowest common denominator where what seemed like the most logical process has now been reduced to what feels like a post war music hall act where everything goes horrendously wrong. We now have on our hands the kind of political mayhem not seen for a good many decades. The result, or so we're led to believe, is seemingly a formality but then we remember David Cameron, a former PM.

Cameron, another old Etonian, was the man who dragged us into this fiery hell of argy bargy, altercation and anguish in the first place. Cameron was the one who was convinced that the country deserved a voice, an opinion and a referendum on whether Britain should leave the EU. In retrospect he must have felt that it simply wasn't worth the effort. Maybe he should have thought this one through. His personal decision to remain in the EU would have catastrophic repercussions, ripples in the water that became a torrent and was now a raging waterfall.

So here we are back on General Election Day, not quite knowing what exactly we're being asked to do but seething with anger, cynicism and scepticism- or maybe that should read Euro scepticism. As things stand the whole political system is both morally and emotionally bankrupt, a once healthy democracy now in severe danger of being  jeopardised by a grinning cast of third rate clowns, Wild West cowboys, absurd opportunists, shameless charlatans and  reckless philistines who profess to have the country's best interests at heart.

The old joke was that if it rained on a General Election day then all Labour party supporters would curl up on the sofa and read the Morning Star paper for the 150th time. Until the arrival of the ever charismatic Tony Blair it did seem that the Labour party were rather like a slumbering dinosaur because their potentially electable Prime Minister kept stumbling over on the beaches of Britain as the waves crashed in.

But then a man with little dress sense and a coat that looked as if it had dropped off the shelves of a local Oxfam, staggered into the political maelstrom with only a dog to keep him company. Michael Foot was a rather sad, scruffy and dishevelled man who never really seemed sure of where he was supposed to be going or the direction he was travelling. Of course Foot had been brought up from birth to believe that Socialism would be the only way to go, the road that lead to eternal prosperity.

Now though the Labour party have been burdened down with the walking calamity who is Jeremy Corbyn. When Neil Kinnock finally came to his senses after the devastating defeat to Mrs Thatcher you'd have thought that the penny had dropped. After Gordon Brown's brief exposure to the 10 Downing Street cameras, Tony Blair, that all conquering hero and Labour revolutionary, spent a decade capably steering the good ship Great Britain to safer waters. Some though would still accuse Blair, somewhat unfairly it has to be said, of Iraqi warmongering when there was no need for it at all.

For the Tories though there was the peerless Ms Thatcher, the admittedly too earnest John Major and the recently departed Theresa May before whom the dark shadow of David Cameron still hangs heavily over the Tories past. And now we have the ruthlessly aspirational and, to all appearances, tactless Boris Johnson. We knew he was in scheming mood when Mayor of London, a power hungry man who didn't care who he hurt on the way to the top.

At first he would appear at the London assembly as Mayor of the capital city and deny quite categorically that he would ever throw his hat into the ring when it came to appointing a new Prime Minister. Oh no not Boris. He was just a very competent manipulator, oozing with warm statements about the impressive architecture of his London, boasting about the right decisions he'd make that would benefit London and then re-assuring us repeatedly that the streets of London had never been safer.

Underneath that very shrewd exterior though lie the most concealed of hidden agendas. Boris wanted the top job at 10 Downing Street and after much schmoozing, much ingratiating, much glad handing of all the most important people in the land, Boris has got his way and some of us knew he would. Patience became a virtue and a self fulfilling prophecy. Johnson now stands on the brink of glory again.

Today though Britain will go to the polls not because they want to or have to. We've all slipped that famous piece of paper into a battered old black box and that is the way it has to be whether we like it or not. Of course you have the option of spoiling your voting slip because that is your right. Some of us would rather not reveal their personal choice suffice it to say that it was a vote or, quite possibly, an expression of our innermost feelings. And no it wasn't a spoilt vote, more of a very polite message.

Across the highlands and lowlands, the valleys and meadows, the thatched cottages, the hedgerows, the stone walls, the noble electricity pylons and wind turbines, the shopping centres, the council estates and the upright terraced houses of Britain, the people will tell us exactly how they feel.

Tomorrow morning though we will wake up to a bright eyed and bushy tailed BBC breakfast TV show where bleary eyes will once again flick away the sleep from worn eyes and announce what appears to be the inevitable. The blond one from Uxbridge will have brought home victory for the Tories and middle England will turn over the very literary pages of either the Daily Telegraph or Daily Mail. It will tap its egg very properly, spread its sweetest jam onto its very edible toast and then tell the rest of the nation that we told you so.  Hold on, that's just the worst kind of stereotype and that one can't be allowed. Boris Johnson is the next Prime Minister of Britain. How predictable was that? It was so easy. Let's go Boris!