As the general election scuttles closer, the campaign grows more confusing by the moment, so it’s good that last week’s seven-way leaders’ debate brought some much-needed mayhem to the situation. Not so long ago we were bemoaning the lack of choice in a two-party system. Now we’ve got option paralysis.

It had its moments. Nigel Farage complained about foreigners with HIV who enter Britain and immediately start wolfing down expensive medicine: greedy as well as sick. You’d think Farage might welcome immigrants with grave illnesses on the basis that they’re less likely to hang around as long, but apparently not. Say what you like about him – say it, write it down, daub it in 3ft-high cherry-red letters up the side of a prominent overpass on his regular commute if you must – but it’s undeniably refreshing to see a politician determined to speak his mind, indifferent to the absurd constraints of spin or basic human empathy. Never mind HIV sufferers – how much is Britain spending on refugees with cancer? Maybe he could put that statistic on a sandwich board and patrol the country in it, perhaps while ringing a bell and loudly commanding passersby to picture a nation under his command.

Farage is often described as the leader you’d most like to share a drink with, which seems reasonable because at least if alcohol’s involved there’s a chance you might forget the encounter. No need to resort to booze where some of the other leaders are involved. For instance, not only will any conversation with Cameron disappear from your mind the moment it’s over, his face will erase itself from any selfies you took together. Try to recall which issues you discussed and your vision will turn ash-grey, while a low rumbling noise – like the churning of a mighty, windowless machine room in the bowels of the Earth – will fill your mind, softly at first, steadily growing until the volume becomes so overwhelming your cranium begins to rupture from within. And it’s no use speaking to any witnesses – by now, 57 years later, they’re either dead or strapped to a gurney in an institution, wild-haired and screaming, their arms restrained to prevent them clawing out what remains of their eyes. You thank the doctors and return to your car; as you adjust the rear-view mirror you think you glimpse a shadow in the back seat – but when you turn around, no one’s there. Later that day you die in a bizarre motorway accident when a truck full of crucifixes overturns in front of you. As police arrive on the scene, a raven is eating your tongue. That’s why you’d prefer a drink with Nigel Farage.

I say “you”, because you love Nigel. You love him and you love him and you like him and you love him, and you follow him on Twitter and you gushingly retweet everything he says, stroking the letters and grinning like each one’s a kitten made of puppies. You’d like to carve a giant Nigel out of pillows and crawl inside it and live there. You’re thinking about kissing Nigel right now. Leaning in and kissing him. His eyes half-lidded in dreamy expectation, the warm scent of Spitfire Kentish ale wafting from his open mouth, his tongue glistening cheekily in its dark cave, waiting to writhe and wrestle with your own. You want him to be prime minister of YOU.

Well that’s your choice and I respect it. I’ve decided to warm to Ed Miliband on the basis that, in a recent interview, he spoke about how he used to play Manic Miner on the ZX Spectrum when he was a schoolboy: the only statement any politician has ever made to which I can personally relate. On this basis alone, I reckon I’d be able to adequately conduct a 15-minute conversation with him before gazing vaguely into the middle distance and muttering: “Well anyway, must be getting on …”

For some insane reason, Miliband failed to mention how brilliant he was at Manic Miner during the debate itself; a debate he approached with the mindset of a “happy warrior”, according to the preparatory notes the Sun cheerfully reproduced after he left them in his dressing room. It’s all quite gamey – “Happy Warrior” sounds like an early-80s Taito arcade coin-op. People said the broadcast looked like a gameshow, but if you watched it on BBC News it was more like a video game, thanks to the onscreen “opinion worm” which translated the reactions of a panel of undecided voters into a wiggly line that rose and fell according to how much they agreed with whatever sentiment expressed at the time.

God knows how they selected the opinion worm “players”. What sort of person can’t decide who to vote for, but can rate, on the fly, how much they like whatever they’re hearing out of five, and wants to sit there tapping a button accordingly? It’s the mindset of a very specific flavour of psychopath we’re probing here.

It’s never worth listening to public opinion before making a decision anyway. Example: on my desk is an empty container for an egg mayonnaise “deli2go” sandwich I purchased from a Shell garage. It was an OK sandwich; I specifically chose egg mayonnaise because it was bland, and I’d spent the past week recovering from a particularly vicious stomach bug that temporarily replaced all my regular bowel movements with a gruesome ceremony in which I squirted boiling hot chicken stock into the pan with the force of someone trying to rinse off the enamel. Anyway, on the side of the sandwich pack is a recommendation from a member of the public. “I’ve eaten a million egg mayo sandwiches and you’re the only ones that get it perfect,” claims Paul from Canterbury.

Liar. LIAR.

No one’s eaten “a million” egg mayo sandwiches. Not once in human history has that happened. Not even close. Paul is lying. He’s a liar. And what sort of maniac would have supplied deli2go with a quote about a frigging egg mayonnaise sandwich anyway? Answer: Probably the same sort of maniac who’d willingly operate an opinion worm. A self-professed “undecided voter” who’s probably lying about being undecided anyway. And these are the idiots our politicians are trying to impress? Well bah to that, and them, and everything. Bah to everything. BAH BAH BAH.