So it's come to this - Chancellor George Osborne frantically frottering the gussets of grannies nationwide in an effort to demonstrate that while he may not despise the Krauts and the Dagoes as much as that nice Nigel Farage does, he can still shout you a nice night out at the bingo.
The responses I'm seeing range from stunned hilarity to swoons over Chancellor George's tactical wizardry, but I like it because it'd have old Henry Mencken in stitches.
Here, today, we've seen all of British democracy reduced to a heavyweight politician hurling bribes at the wealthy and the elderly, in an effort to prevent a minority party of dingbats and leathery sexual deviants shaving a few points off the Tory Party's probable electoral walloping.
Democracy in all it's glory there, kids - necrophilia, employed as a weapon to fend off the half-dead and the mindless. HLM would have a field day.
And the best part is, it almost certainly won't work. I don't know about you lot, but I can't see a few cash bungs coralling many potential UKIP voters back into the Tory fold. After all, most of them seem to feel wholly entitled to whatever they've got, oblivious to whatever gifts are chucked at them and viciously resentful that they don't have much, much more.
What drives and has always driven the section of the electorate that habitually chases after the most determinedly and consistently cruel psychopaths in UK politics is spite - red raw, seething spite, an unceasing churn of bitter disgust at the idea that somebody, somewhere, is living a modest existence without being harshly immiserated.
Surely this shouldn't need spelling out? They don't want politicians to make them wealthier. If Osborne stuffed their wallets they wouldn't notice or if they did, they'd assume that it was their absolute right anyway. They're not asking for more money - they want politicians to give them what they don't have, and that's their enemies' heads on sticks, preferably being paraded up and down the high street.
When certain types of voters keep telling you that they're really bloody angry that we're not battering criminals or ejecting immigrants or kicking the workshy or cracking down on this, that or the next thing, they're not asking for e.g. a boost in their basic pensions.
They want you to get out the billyclubs and start bashing fuck out of everyone that they hate. They want you to dress the coppers up like space marines and send them to beat some respect into whoever last annoyed them on television.
Chucking a few penny-cheaper pints at feral yokeldom like this is like flicking cocktail sausages at an advancing pack of ravenous zombies. If you're lucky, you might bonk one on the forehead before it sinks its teeth into your cheek.
All of which is probably worth bearing in mind, while you watch the Tory analysts whoop it up on Newsnight.
Anyway, I always kind of welcome these moments of glaring insanity as demonstrations of the severity of our current situation. When one of the nation's most powerful politicians so publicly straps on the kneepads and hits the doormats of the NWA from Hot Fuzz desperately trying to gain their favour, we're far past the point where we can pretend that our politics are a sane or edifying spectacle.
All the kratos, wielded to impress some very small, select and unimpressable slivers of the demos.
I admit that all this does hold out an enticing possibility of an eventual 28 Days Later kind of outcome for conservatism a few years down the line, but remember - there was a sequel.