Meantime, my column of April 17 produced a deluge of two letters, one from John Wallis, claiming that hiding behind the settee during Dr Who was no myth (he has concrete evidence), and a present from Arthur Renwick – a Children's Favourites CD. This includes the same trio of tunes that once terrified the young Mortimer (see same column). Soon I will pluck up the courage to play it.

Last week, having been exposed as swindling us for years over their exorbitant charges, banks were thanked by the government with a loan of £50bn, to be paid for by a tax on the least well-off. This is called the science of economics, in which subject I happen to have an honours degree. Not many people know that, and I often forget it too.

So – what is that great surge of humanity surging through the streets today (Thursday)? It is akin to the armies descending on St James' Park before kick-off.

Of course! It is polling day, and these are the voters! In the polling stations, clerks nervously prepare as the enthusiastic swarm approaches.

Except no. How quiet these polling stations are on local election day. An old lady wanders in with a poodle. There's an elderly man on a stick. Do these people know the names or faces of their councillors? Probably not.

Are they voting because their outside street lights are dodgy, or because of the Iraq war? They are unsure. Most people aren't voting at all.

In other parts of the world (ie Zimbabwe) people are being murdered while fighting for their democratic rights. In the UK, we find it difficult to get our backsides off the sofa (behind which we'll find a dozen kids hiding from Dr.Who) for the few minutes required to engage in the process. Meantime 20 million of us will vote for which celebrity dances better than another. Ah, politics!

We are dealing with anti-celebrity status. While national politicians admittedly are derided, criticised, lampooned and generally mistrusted, they do at least have a profile. If your MP suddenly walks into a crowded room, there is a certain frisson; that aura that surrounds those in the public eye. This aura is lacking with local councillors. Local councillors are aura-free.

What is our stereotype of this species? We conjure them as late middle-aged, self-important, white, given to verbal pomposity, and formality, devoid of humour or self-criticism .The very words 'local councillor' seem frozen in time. Thus, we would not be surprised at a male councillor producing a fob watch on a chain from his waistcoat pocket.

They belong still in our minds like some caricature from a J B Priestley play, solid, slow, and dull. Our stereotype is mainly male.

When we see the real thing interviewed on television it is often to defend some absurd policy, such as fining a resident for having a red cat, and thus the stereotype is reinforced. Outside these times they are rarely visible. We could sit in the public gallery for council debates, but unless such debate is about the council's threat to build a nuclear power station on the site of our children's play school, we don't.

Local council debates rank low as a spectator sport. No one has ever suggested live media coverage.

Few of us would dream of standing for the local council. Why does the prospect not thrill the blood? Why are we given to both a steady stream of moaning about what our council does, and total apathy about doing anything about it?

There should be a certain nobility and honour about being elected to guide the fortunes of our fellow citizens. But we don't get involved. We'd rather grow fat watching Celebrity Hiccups.

They often get away with murder those local councillors. They want a good slapping. Look at the farrago of our seafront for one. And maybe the cynics are right. Maybe nothing ever changes.

But one thing's certain. Such change is even less likely if our own response is cynical apathy. Go on, for all the imperfections, get off your fat bottom and vote.

PETER MORTIMER

Mortimer at Large, Selected Columns, now published by IRON Press/North Tyneside Libraries