Like death, taxes and the 14th hole in a round of golf, politics can be the ruination of an otherwise pleasant afternoon. Which is why, when absolutely up against the wall and forced to put an "X" somewhere on a ballot, I scribble it alongside the name of the chap in a stovepipe hat, wilted flower listing to port from its lid, and a huge daisy pinned to his chest.

For someone to whom politics is right up there on the joy hallelujah scale with dog barf, Homer Simpson and anything bearing the name Trump, there's a certain appeal in a party whose founder campaigned under the slogan, "Vote for Insanity - You Know It Makes Sense," and whose current leader - or at least co-leader - is a cat, Mandu.

It was at Britain's last general election that I found myself facing the choice of voting either for a candidate whose party's past was so deep in the red that Lenin himself would have pined for Ronnie Reagan, or for one whose policies had freed my landlord, whom I believe to be a direct descendant of Attila the Hun via Torquemada and Cardinal Richelieu, to raise my rent by 53 percent.

It was at this spaghetti juncture on my own political Road to Damascus that I really became aware that Britain, if not the home of the free and the brave, is at least the land of warm beer and electoral diversity - 169 labels, in fact, of political affiliation from which to pick and choose.

Talk about spoiled for choice. There was the appealingly monickered All Night Party, and the Black Haired Medium Build Caucasian Male party, and the Green Referendum Lawless Naturally Street Party, and the Lord Byron Versus the Scallywag Tories party, and the Ronnie the Rhino Party, and the Mongolian Barbecue Great Place to Party.

Leave us not forget the Space Age Superhero from Planet Beanus party, nor the Natural Law Party, which fielded 159 candidates, many of them featured on television practicing "yogic flying," who resembled more a bunch of refugees from the Planet Zog bouncing around on foam mattresses with legs folded in a position that looked positively excruciating and surely capable of turning basso profundos into instant sopranos at the crack of a nut.

Not all, of course, were on the ballot in my local area. But there was one alternative, so even as my wife Elizabeth went shopping for a black veil beneath which to hide from the neighbors, I took pen firmly in hand and, along with 256 other disenchanted if not disenfranchised souls in the constituency of Richmond Park, cast my lot with David Beaupre, the candidate for the Official Monster Raving Loony Party.

As does happen in politics, Beaupre lost by about six billion votes, meaning that for about the 40th time in a row, the Official Monster Raving Loony Party failed to get any of its bravehearts elected to Parliament.

Pity, that. And despite timely policies such as heated toilet seats for the elderly, unilaterally declaring Britain the 52nd state of America (without waiting for the 51st), and restricting London traffic to five-foot-long cars, horse-drawn carriages and camel trains, with traffic wardens retrained to follow along, cleaning up steaming piles of dromedary doo doo.

It was all a bit fraught for Screaming Lord Sutch, the party's leader since its birth over a few - well, perhaps more than a few - drinks and five or maybe six stale pretzels at the Golden Lion Hotel in Ashburton, tucked away in the southwest corner of England. Sutch did himself in, possibly over losing the eight bucks he bet on himself to become prime minister at odds of about 15 million to one.

But that did open the cat flap for a new leader and Mandu - a four-year-old ginger tom - strolled right in, as cats are wont to do. Cats, as anyone who has ever been owned by one knows full well, are perhaps the most egotistical, self-centered serious opportunists on this or any other three planets of your choice. In other words, politicians par excellence.

So now the Official Monster Raving Loony Party is headed into the new millennium with Mandu sharing its leadership with the party's only elected politician, Alan Hope, mayor of the 638-year-old town of Ashburton.

Mandu, incidentally, has been appropriately snipped, so at least our feline leader won't be getting up to a spot of the naughty-naughties with any Minnie or Monica Mouser on the staff.

I'd suggest that maybe it's time to give the Loonies a shot - except there's something that nags me about that 52nd state business and the prospect of being governed someday by a dumpy talk-show hostess or over-the-hill actor or some sort of all-in rassler from the wilds of Minnesota...

Sigh. Let's see that list again - The Fancy Dress Party, maybe, or the Glow Bowling Party, or Happiness Stan's Freedom to Party?

Thought for the Week: Amateurs built Noah's Ark. Professionals built the Titanic.

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