YOU often hear people refer to the “Westminster Bubble”, an enclosed space of trapped wind wherein bobs an out-of-touch elite, peering out at us as we peer in at them.

However, it’s the small size rather than the protective coating of the Bubble that intrigues me. Size matters, as I’ve frequently been reminded over the years. It’s also, I guess, the Brussels Bubble of which I should be babbling as this week’s homily examines some of the candidates for the European elections.

My apathy was first piqued by the announcement that Rachel Johnson, sister of Boris of that ilk, would be standing. Coming after Annunziata Rees-Mogg, sister of Jacob of that ilk, was revealed as a Brexit Party candidate, the thought came into my brain: “This is getting nuts.”

The ruling elite, and its candidates, are drawn from a smaller and smaller pool. It’s like something out of medieval Venice or the 20th century mafia. It’s a world of political dynasties.

You may say: “But these are individuals in their own right, ken?” Oh, I ken. But so are 60 million other people in Britainshire Statistically speaking, the chances of a brother and sister becoming part of the democratically elected political elite should be vanishingly small, all other things being equal. But, in Britain, all other things be unequal.

What have they to commend them anyway? A name? When Annunziata was trying to get a job as a Tory MP, party leader David “Call me Dave” Cameron tried to persuade her to change her handle to Nancy Mogg in order not to alienate the masses. But she refused, possibly on the grounds that Nancy Mogg sounds like someone who spends her Saturday lunchtimes at the leisure centre bingo and enjoys a wee Malibu on her birthday.

Comedian Frankie Boyle said Annunziata sounded like “a spell Harry Potter would say to deport the Windrush generation”. While satirical website The Daily Mash claimed that a Doncaster forklift driver called Wayne had expressed solidarity with her, saying: “We’re basically the same. She didn’t go to university either.”

Instead, she became a stockbroker, a surprising choice of occupation for someone who joined the Tories aged five and was canvassing for them at eight. Now she’s thrown in her lot with Nigel Farridge, as his name should be pronounced in the British language; Faraaj, as he says it, is French.

(Incidentally, has anyone noticed how all the men in the Brexit Party dress like spivs? They’re conjuring something quintessentially British, from the days when England was great and won the war, but they look like they’d have spent it selling nylons on the black market).

As with Boris Johnson, who likes to watch the steaming ordure coming out of deer when they’ve been killed, Nunzie has a posh person’s penchant for cruelty to animals and is an ardent supporter of fox-mangling. Even in England, this can lose you votes.

However, she’s probably got more chance than the aforementioned Rachel, sister of Boris, who’s standing for Change UK, the party seeking to retain the status quo with Europe. Any psephological psychopath can see this lot will amount to nothing.

Rachel’s chances fall further when you consider that, in South West Englandshire, she’s up against the mighty Ann Widdecombe, who has defected to Farridge from the Tories. Whereas Rachel is worried about Brexit spoiling skiing opportunities for young persons in Europe, Widdecombe has called it as it is, saying: “Britain is an international laughing stock.” Voters: “Correct.”

And at least there’s only one Widdecombe. There are way too many Johnsons and Rees-Moggs as it is without adding more.

I REMEMBER as a teenager drawing up a list of potential conversational topics before going out on a first date. I exhausted everything I had to say on the subject in the first five minutes and we spent the following three hours in an uncomfortable silence. And so it continued after we got married. Joke.

Now, behaviour psychologists – aye, thaim – are telling us we should bring up Brexit on a first date, as attitudes towards it will determine whether we will get on and form happy relationships, considering the world with one mind that encapsulates either the arrogant intolerance of Remainers or the Little Englandism of Brexiteers.

I tend to the view that politics, religion and sex should be avoided in all conversations beyond those with the police. However, I’ve noticed that nearly everyone talks about politics now. I blame that internet.

Very few people had strong political opinions in the past, and nerdy folk who went in for that sort of thing were generally avoided. Now, everybody’s a statesman or philosopher, and relationships break up over daft issues like Brexit. Who cares?

It’s the same with that Extinction Rebellion nonsense. It’s just a ruddy planet, for God’s Sake.

OH, Scotland. What a daft wee country you are. Outage erupted on social media – where else? – after the First Minister, Nicola Sturgeon, made some allegedly important statement about an independence referendum and the BBC, bearing in mind its duty as broadcaster to the nation, showed live coverage from a snooker match instead.

You have to ask whose pockets they’re in. But you’ve got to laugh tae. As someone said earlier, politics isn’t something we should talk about. But it’s arguably something we should be aware of, preferably in the privacy of our own homes, in front of the TV screen, with a small vat of Malibu on hand to dull the pain.

It’s getting as bad as the football, where we don’t get to watch Scotland matches but can watch as many England friendlies as they can force onto the schedule.

As it turned out, Ms Sturgeon didn’t have much to say, other than announcing that she was going to kick her can further doon the road than Theresa’s. But it’s the principle that counts.

Similarly, we should also be able to watch live religious events or sexual encounters involving politicians and celebrities. Anything rather than ruddy snooker.