It's Balls, it really is

Little dabs of powder, little dabs of paint, make a minister’s complexion look like what it ain’t.

Ed Balls has make-up applied

Little dabs of powder, little dabs of paint, make a minister’s complexion look like what it ain’t.

That’s Balls. No, really it is... Ed Balls. All dabbed, powdered and painted for his first election camera-call. What a perfect picture of electoral vanity.

Groomed to soap star soft focus, he took his position with a make-up artist outside Number 10, having offered a jolly little joke to waiting media on his way in to see the PM on Tuesday morning.

“Is something happening today?” he quipped. Oh, how they nearly laughed.

His touch-up facial must have been undertaken in hope that Labour’s Max Factor answer to airbrushing might secure another five years in office for Mr Balls and his chums.

Some dream that is. At least we have to trust so. It would be a travesty if votes were captured on the basis of foundation shade, prettiness, bomber jackets * or even pregnancies, come to that.

Though it will have been a mystery to voters, of any and all political persuasions, why Gordon Brown chose to cosy up to Ed Balls on his big day * bravely announcing his first bid at fair and square election to office of prime minister * dafter things have happened and will again before this rolling show is over.

April 6. Day one. The world’s worst kept secret burst open with Gordon’s chauffeur driven trip to ask the Queen’s permission to dissolve Parliament.

She flew in from Windsor by helicopter and shared just 21 minutes with her prime minister * so she clearly didn’t take time to put the kettle on then.

Political gloves were hurriedly thrown off from the months-long, phoney shadow boxing campaign seen so far and all parties shifted into overdrive to impress.

Gordon got on a train with Sarah. He cares about public transport, see. David Cameron rolled up his sleeves, threw off his tie and got into surgical spirit in an NHS hospital. He cares about the health service, you know.

Earlier in the day domesticated Dave * don’t you just love a new man? * had kindly served coffee to reporters loitering outside his home.

“You can tell he’s a Tory,” one Cumbrian wag commented shrewdly. “All his mugs match.”

Nick Clegg stood shoulder to shoulder with Vince Cable * the one electoral secret weapon without a baby bump, since he’s apparently alone in understanding numbers.

Day two and David Cameron had managed to run into trouble before breakfast. Cycling through London without a helmet, he had head injury advisory groups and health and safety anoraks bursting blood vessels in fury.

Shocking example to children, they wailed. But do children really adopt the likes of Mr Cameron as their role model? I think probably not.

Dave didn’t appear to be too worried about the lifestyle micro-managers * not as worried as he would have been had he been forced to conduct the remainder of his day with flattened helmet hair, anyway.

On home patch, John Prescott was kissed by two young women in Carlisle... takes all sorts. He’d rolled into the city on his shrunken battle bus. More of a minibus actually, which is a bit of a come-down from his Jags * especially for a big lad like Prezza * but what with recession and all...

On Friday Tory party chairman Eric Pickles will be in Penrith with his minibus. He’s also a big chap for a little bus but * well, see above.

“Are you related at all?” I was asked * not for the first time.

“Not at all. Not even distantly.”

“Mmm, no bad thing probably.”

And that from a Conservative. At last, an election statement I can agree with wholeheartedly. She may well have just clinched this floater’s vote.