"Mos Eisley spaceport," sighs Ben Kenobi in Star Wars. "You will never find a more wretched hive of scum and villainy ... " Evidently Obi Wan never visited Sky's post-debate spin room, which – pound-of-flesh for pound-of-flesh – must have been one of the most distasteful places to be in this galaxy or any other tonight.

The venue was an interactive science museum in Bristol, magically transformed by Rupert Murdoch's news network into a fully operational 10th circle of hell. Behold, the cream of Britain's arseoisie, as journalists, spin doctors and politicians interact in scenes that just scream "Come, friendly bombs …"

To the left, George Osborne robotically repeating "David Cameron showed passion, leadership and commitment." To the right, Michael Gove simulating anguish that Nick Clegg should have referred to the dead Polish president's party as nutters: "The sort of comment that no one who wants to be taken seriously should utter." In the middle, Alastair Campbell failing to pull off sang froid: "It's a poll, it's a poll – you can take them or leave them." And unifying the picture, Sky's endlessly pant-wetting coverage of its own coverage.

It was like watching the live abortion of democracy. Had the network decided the evening should have been immortalised in oil paint (surely only a matter of time), Hieronymus Bosch would have declined the commission on the basis that it was a hellscape too far even for him.

Still, the premise is simple. Even before the party leaders have finished debating, legions of spinners and spinners' lackeys materialise to explain exactly why everything you thought you saw and heard was wrong. Think of it as the organ grinders taking over. They certainly act as though they regard it as such.

Having vapourised seconds before the debate, the spindroids were suddenly all back in the room, presumably having just slid through a haunted TV screen to begin immediately the task of dispensing weapons grade wisdom. "The only poll that really counts is the one where people put their cross on a ballot paper," explained Harriet Harman. "It's not a question of people voting right now."

In America, they call these media pens Spin Alley, so those searching for a suitably small-time UK equivalent should alight on something like Fibbers' Close, or Bollocks Avenue. Then again, in the US, these bunfights are more evolved. After the third presidential debate in 2004, a TV puppet called Triumph the Insult Comic Dog infiltrated Spin Alley, where he cheeked representatives of both parties. Of Democratic spinner Joe Lockhart he inquired: "Can you spin a woman to thinking you don't look gross in the shower?" Karl Rove was greeted with: "Ah, you're 'Bush's brain'. I was expecting a smaller man."

Alas, the UK media is way too starry eyed about its new toy to dream of undermining it in this righteous manner. To isolate the biggest whopper told in the room in the wake of the debate would be a task for a more sophisticated listening system than the human ear, but an audit even of those overheard in a mere six foot radius would have to include Douglas Alexander's "Gordon dominated the debate tonight. He left Nick and David Cameron trailing in his wake." In fairness, everyone was giving their best Iraqi information minister. "The infidels are nowhere near the airport! No one could ever want to slap David Cameron round the face with a wet fish!"

Perhaps the most excruciating aspect of the postmortem, though, is the misplaced sense of worth it confers upon those who imagine themselves its linchpins. At the exclusive launch party of Tina Brown's now defunct Talk magazine, held on Liberty Island, Demi Moore pointed across the water at Manhattan and said sympathetically: "We must look amazing to the people over there." A similar type of self-regard is abroad in the spin room, with people appearing to feel personally validated to be there, and firmly under the illusion that the public would kill to get a look in. In fact, the public would kill if they got a look in, which is something altogether different.

Yet every spinner with a God complex gives the impression of being a hotshot at the centre of the universe, as opposed to a bloke in a bad suit at a Bristol kids' museum, trying to pretend that David Cameron came across like JFK. You might care to know that the Tories stayed spinning the longest, then again you might find the behaviour of dried peas a matter of greater interest. But the entire affair is, quite simply, a two bath event, which is to say that when one finally escapes it, a single immersion in scalding water doesn't begin to get the psychological dirt off.