Te Radar: Raving P-users have nothing on our ranting politicians

I discovered this week that the smoking of methamphetamine can indeed cause paranoia. I came to this realisation as I sat down to cruelly skewer upon the barbed pen of satire those cowardly P-addicted criminals.

However, as I began to do so I suddenly felt somewhat constrained by the thought of the amount of spare time that P addicts have as a result of their periods of enforced wakefulness.

I became increasingly concerned that one of these reprobates, annoyed at my pithy wordsmithery at their expense, and with plenty of spare time on their hands (when not committing crime), would find out where I lived. They would then arrive at my humble abode and interfere with me (and not in a good way).

Still, when it comes to random and unpredictable outbursts, the P-criminal seems to be trailing our representatives in the House of Parliament, who this week introduced hitherto unseen levels of frivolity and futility to the proceedings.

Personal insults have been traded as liberally as brown paper bags full of cash at international whaling conventions.

Indeed, tempers in the House have been nearly as frayed as those of the misunderstood pro-whaling lobby, whose only desire seems to be to scientifically investigate the whale by feeding it to schoolchildren.

As an avowed abstainer from the election booth, there is nothing that warms the cockles of my cerebral cortex like an election year. With no vested interest in who wins, I am free to enjoy the entire spectrum of political folly.

As the wheels start to fall off the various political platforms, we are occasionally treated to the experience of one of our erstwhile parliamentary representatives having what can only be described as brain explosions, when they suddenly do or say something considered unparliamentary.

Accusations have been bandied across the floor of the House about medicated members, of sordid visits to treatment centres (which some would argue should be compulsory for all MPs), and of illicit liaisons. This never ceases to pique my attention.

People describe the debating chamber as being like a schoolyard. It does, however, have one inherent difference. As an adult it is somewhat frowned upon to loiter in schoolyards watching the juvenile dynamics at play. There is slightly more stigma attached to watching Parliament.

As an avid listener to Parliament (an indicator either of too much spare time or a mental illness) there is nothing as exciting as a fiery question time. Of course it is called Question Time because as listeners we spend a lot of time asking ourselves, "Are we paying for this?'

It has moments of drama, farce, tragedy and comedy, often simultaneously. This is not easily done, just ask the television networks.

As the week draws to a close I sit, cloistered in a curtained home, hoping that the knock on the door is either a disgruntled P-head or someone trying to entice me on to the electoral roll.

Their company should help make Question Time even more stimulating.