There is nothing so soul-sapping as pondering a political poll. You wonder who does ponder them. Presumably that chap in a suit who is slightly ahead of that other chap in a suit in the popularity stakes. Until the next poll in which, quite possibly, that other chap in a suit sprints ahead of that other chap in a suit by a breath-taking 0.1%, or some similarly thrilling margin. A snail race would be more exciting.
We have five more months of polls to come, of cheering on our favourite snail, or sneering at our least-preferred snail, until we slowly slime across the line that is election day. The very thought is enough to make one lose the will to live, let