THERE is a theory that you become an expert at a task or activity after undertaking 10,000 hours of practice at it.

The theory was put forward a little over 20 years ago, and while some have denounced it as too convenient, it’s often tough to disagree.

Watch, for example, Dave Gilmour play a guitar solo, 40-odd years on from his Pink Floyd debut, and he’ll effortlessly make thousands of jaws drop in venues around the world, with a placid look on his face and without breaking a sweat.

Watch actor and seasoned theatrical performer Mark Rylance stare wistfully into the distance, saying nothing but silently portraying a sea of emotions, while everyone around him chews the scenery trying to keep up, and you can see the decades of stage experience lift him above the rest of the cast.

Watch self-styled ‘jazz comedian’ Stewart Lee play with the form of stand-up – deconstructing the idea of a routine, playing sections of the audience off each other, daring them to laugh, then throwing out a call-back to a line from ten minutes previously for applause.

It’s a clinical and scientific way of approaching work that he’s developed over more than 20 years. If he’s not your cup of tea – and he is an acquired taste – see how easily acts such as Peter Kay, Michael McIntyre and Jason Manford entertain packed stadia with their highly polished, if less-experimental, routines.

Now take a look at the current batch of political featherweights trying to convince us to let them run our country. These politicians have been geared towards political leadership since their schooldays, if not their conception.

They were (mostly) born into privilege, and (mostly) received the most expensive education money and influence can buy, and then rose through the ranks of their respective parties thanks to the same.

Now these ready-made politicians are in their forties or older, many of them with no experience outside their political spheres, meaning they have far more than 10,000 hours experience of under their belts.

So how come they make everything look so difficult?

Naturally, politics is a different beast to entertainment, but it is becoming increasingly less so. Between the pantomime verbal altercations and the faux-sincerity, modern politics is just a pair of high-waisted trousers and a rigged phone vote away from being a prime-time talent contest, and there’s nothing else to watch until after the General Election.

Politicians aren’t judged by their policies or their abilities to balance budgets any more, but on their snide digs at the opposition or how natural they can look while holding a pint of beer and pulling a concerned face while half-listening to one of their constituents.

Watch how they flounder on live radio shows when asked about how their policies might work, coining phrases like “brain fade”, and ensuring their party gets column inches for the wrong reasons.

Watch how they promise the next five years will be better if they’re voted in for the ‘difficult second album’, while assuring us they won’t be around for the five years after that – no doubt because their diaries are booked solid with lucrative public speaking engagements through until 2025.

Watch how they appear in publicity stunt after publicity stunt looking awkward alongside the people they claim to represent, telling people “I’m glad you asked that question”, then resolutely refusing to answer it – instead steering their response towards a party line and fooling absolutely nobody.

In fairness, I suppose that in itself is quite a talent – appearing to do what’s expected of you while actually doing whatever is in your and your party’s best interest, not to mention the best interest of those who contribute funds to your party.

But what do I know, I’m not an expert. I haven’t dedicated 10,000 hours to in-depth political analysis – I struggle to bear with them for five minutes at a time, and like everyone else I’m just busy trying to get by in the world they control.