IT'S the oddest General Election I can remember.

In the past, Worcester's suburbs have been festooned with placards and posters extolling passers-by to vote for the preferred candidate.

Walking the streets of the Faithful City, I must say that there are few clues that the people in the oldest modern democracy are about to deliver their verdict on their leaders.

However, there is no shortage of leaflets lying on the mat, from the brilliant paint-box blue of the Tories to the muted understatement of Labour's personally-addressed pamphlet.

Neat touch, this - and one from a persuasive politician who makes it his business to know you. Smiles-wise, if Mike Foster has the look of a Catholic priest about to hear your confession, then Margaret Harper surely has the fixed grin of a Saga rep welcoming you to Torremolinos.

But the main excitement in this otherwise dull campaign is undoubtedly provided by John Prescott, that gloriously idiotic buffoon whose fuse - if he ever had one - must by now be microscopic.

Tony Blair will obviously send him on an advanced anger management course once the election's done and dusted. But in the meantime, keep 'em coming, Prezzer.

And why on earth didn't you run amok when you visited Worcester? Spoilsport!