In a seven-way debate, the truth-evaders can wriggle free

They won’t do that again. Seven leaders lined up like skittles all nervously fingering their plastic lecterns. In charge was Julie Etchingham who’d spent many hours in wardrobe creating a fetishistic look. Severe blonde hair. A spotless high-necked tunic as white as sharks fangs. Heavy black-rimmed specs. She looked like the gorgeous physics genius who works for James Bond’s arch-enemy. During the debate she lacked authority. When candidates shouted at each other she joined in and tried to harry them or close them down. More coolness needed. And she was glued to a lectern like the speakers. Roaming among them with a single portable microphone, she might have umpired more effectively.

Leanne Wood of Plaid Cymru almost wept during her overture. ‘I’m from the Rhondda,’ she said in lilting tones. ‘And I’m speaking to everyone back home in Wales tonight.’ She sounded homesick. Perhaps she should have been allowed to go back on the bus with tea and a bun.