So, look, I know my ranking in the campaign team is problematic. But I do not see my best fucking role as playing Nick Clegg in your debate warm-ups, all right? It's not seemly. It's not respectful. It is, quite frankly, bullshit on an English muffin. Plus I really think you can find someone more suited to playing Clegg. Like a Weetabix with a Dictaphone taped to it. Daniel Radcliffe. Geoff Hoon if I cut out his tongue with a rusty British army field knife. Even Nick Clegg himself would probably be pretty pleased to turn up for 40 quid and the chance to hang out with some grown-ups – although I think you might find the guy a bit unconfuckingvincing.

See, what exactly am I meant to be doing? You can have me outside the tent pissing in, or you can have me inside the tent pissing out, and also picking off campers with a sniper rifle. But if you don't give me one of those roles soon you're going to find me over by the shower block taking a shit on the four-pack of Kronenbourg and the packet of Cathedral City cheddar in your icebox.

Frankly, I think you're getting the wrong advice on the debates. As you know, people who saw Nixon and Kennedy on TV thought Kennedy won, and those who heard it on the radio thought Nixon won. But, really, we don't give a flying wad of wet Daily Express about either of these groups. What we need to know is: what about the people who were sitting through JFK-Nixon on the can doodling specs on cartoon-strip pictures of Daffy Duck and making themselves laugh with the sounds of their own farts? Who did they think won? Most people are not going to see these Bestivals of bore. After all, with the 478 debate rules in place they're going to have all the drama of three middle-aged guys fencing with limp dicks. The only ones watching are going to be the pointless bastards who already know what they think.

We need to get to the people who only hear the rumours. Bottom feeders who get their views via the quotes from the models in the Daily Star. Van drivers who guard their vast ignorance with concealed Stanley knives. Businessmen who like to expose their self-aggrandising cynicism to schoolgirls on the Thameslink. These dumb motherfuckers are the battlefield. Shitheels. Dunderheads. People who when you talk to them it's like shouting through six pieces of double glazing. Potheads, cider drinkers, kids who don't know who Thatcher was and think the NHS grew on a big fucking NHS tree. Wankers. People who count to 11 using their 10 fingers and their head and still get it wrong. This is who we have to get to via the debates. So we are going to have to shout extremely fucking loud.

NICs Now, obviously everyone is finding the election incredibly exciting – barring those not directly involved in the media or campaigns: ie the electorate. And probably the most thrilling part of the whole thing is the "battle" over national insurance which, brilliantly, no one understands. The Tories have tried to brand NI a tax on jobs, which has the merit of being such an oversimplification that it actually makes it harder to understand what they're talking about. My advice on NI: move on, nothing to see here.

The Big Society This is going to be the next battlefield, apparently. Except, excuse me, but what the bucket-face is the Big Society? Is it like the Wine Society except for fat lads and lasses? What does it mean? The Cubs doing coronary bypasses? Tax disc with your Planet Earth DVD? Bono in charge of the west coast mainline? Cardinal O'Dodgy gets to run a kiddies home? The Scientologists do the RAC and the RAC run housing benefit? That's what's going to mend Broken Britain and let them cut government spending by a quarter? They're using a corner-shop bag to carry Howitzer shells. It's going to fall apart. Put it under the spotlight.

Until next week: Limp On, Oh Great Man of Granite!

Regards, Malcolm