A POTHOLER who has been trapped in a cave in the Brecon Beacons for four days is 'blissfully unaware' of the forthcoming general election, according to friends.
36-year-old Michael Snark, who is running out of oxygen, is nevertheless now the only human being in Britain not constantly exposed to a depressingly tedious surge of frenzied pre-election arm-flapping from pundits and politicians alike.
The caver's Easter weekend adventure activity may have gone tragically wrong - but, says envious pal James Smythe, at least he has no knowledge of the miserably predictable sloganeering and empty soundbites currently being sprayed across all media by the main political parties.
"It's got to the stage where we're not sure if we should rescue him or not," agonised Smythe, just yards away from the entrance to the caves where his lifelong friend could soon endure a slow and agonising death.
"Do we have the right to expose him to all this? Michael never liked politicians at the best of times. He'd be as self-slappingly cheesed off with the pointless jockeying for airtime despite total lack of policy announcements as everyone else, maybe even more so. Do we risk saving his life, but making him go through a month of this?"
Snark's widow-to-be Jolene, 38, concurred, saying: "It's awful. You can't turn on the TV at the moment without some Oxbridge berk with bad teeth roaring on at you about 'what the polls are saying', like we're meant to all be sitting around waiting for the latest random sample of people in shopping centres like it's the bloody second coming, or something.
"When they start taking Diagnosis Murder off in the afternoons I'm going to write to the BBC."
Her dying husband's predicament has gone largely unnoticed by every single journalist in the entire country, as they have all been asked to write banal articles about Samantha Cameron's haircut and Nick Clegg's choice of tie, like it matters or something. One plucky scribe has, however, made it to the cave - and has been trying to get himself stuck in there for the past 24 hours, with little success.
"It's either this or write on and on and on and on and on about what I saw on television, or listened to on the radio, or read on some bloody blog or something, as if the readers of my newspaper don't actually have brains of their own and need to be tit-fed every single piece of information," he said, desperately trying to get himself wedged in the dangerous rocks.
One onlooker said: "The lucky bastard. The lucky, jammy sod."