Gerard DeGroot: British politics doesn't need American X Factor

There's a reason for that 50-year gap, and it's not simply that Britain is an old-fashioned country. No, the real explanation is that, for a half century, the British have remained above the fray, refusing to reduce their politics to the caricatures preferred by television. Thursday night was a surrender to superficiality, a capitulation to American cultural imperialism.

The 1960 debate should have provided warning of what lies ahead. On television, John Kennedy looked relaxed, tanned, healthy and vigorous – the perfect image of a new leader for a new era. He refused make-up, because he didn't need it.

That forced his opponent Richard Nixon also to decline, even though he desperately needed cosmetic enhancement. Under the harsh lights, he looked pale, nervous and shifty, an image accentuated by a five o'clock shadow.

Kennedy appeared a knight, Nixon a ghoul.

After the debate, pollsters made an interesting discovery. Those who watched on television judged Kennedy the narrow winner. In contrast, those who had listened on radio thought Nixon had won hands down. Since the television audience numbered 60 million and radio listeners were far fewer, a clear political advantage went to Kennedy. A more obvious statement of the triumph of style over substance can hardly be imagined.

The irony, however, goes deeper. Kennedy's vigorous image was fake. His famous tan wasn't a tan at all but the side effects of steroid medication for Addison's Disease. He was also hooked on painkillers, taken for a wartime back injury. In other words, Nixon was a picture of health compared to Kennedy. Images lie.

Given that precedent, Gordon Brown was always destined to lose on Thursday. He is cursed with the same shortcomings that sunk Nixon, in particular a sickly pallor that no amount of make-up can camouflage. Smiles don't come naturally to him, but instead appear to result from an intricate process whereby electronic impulses in his brain tell the muscles in his face to imitate a mood of mirth. And then there's that weird thing he does with his chin when he wants to make a point. As Neil Kinnock bitingly said, "he has a radio face".

Despite how you feel about Mr Brown, it was depressing to watch him lose on looks. His actual policies didn't matter on the night, especially since what the candidates said was so carefully synthesised that meaning had been distilled out. The whole thing reminded me of Velveeta, a processed cheese adored by Americans. It comes in uniform blocks, without blemish, rind, odour or taste.

This wasn't a debate; it was a talent contest. Look at how often mention was made of X Factor and Britain's Got Talent. Even Brown got into the act with a reference clearly designed to show how cool he is. On ITV's post-debate analysis, James Mates actually introduced the results of the network's instant poll by saying: 'Let's see which candidate has the X Factor'. By that stage, I fully expected Davina McCall to come on and tell Brown that he wouldn't be returning next week.

British politics isn't supposed to be this way. It's rough, often vulgar and usually packed with meaning and drama. If it were a cheese, it would be a smelly Stilton, oozing flavour and with a bit of mould on the rind. Why do we need these processed debates if we get the genuine thing every week during prime minister's Question Time? The real problem, however, rests not with the debate itself but with what it says about the direction Britain is travelling.

Our slavish imitation of America runs the risk of destroying what is good about British politics.

At the risk of stating the obvious, Britain has a different government than America. The US has a presidential system; we have a parliamentary one. They elect a leader; we elect a party. Imitation is therefore not just inappropriate, it's potentially dangerous. We do ourselves no favour by turning our elections into popularity contests and pretending we are choosing a president.

We've seen quite a few hints of this transformation already, among them the ridiculous attention given to candidates' wives. Samantha Cameron is her husband's "secret weapon", especially now that we know she is pregnant and her husband, by implication, a stud. Sarah Brown, like Gordon, hasn't a hope of competing in this popularity contest. The obsession with wives mirrors the attention paid to Michelle Obama, with one notable qualification. In America, the president is the political and ceremonial head of state, so there's a sliver of logic to focussing on the image a candidate's wife presents. In Britain, we don't have a First Lady, because we don't need one. We have a Queen.

A president is appropriate to a presidential system, but grafting a president on to a parliamentary system risks producing a distorted hybrid. In America, Congress is independent from the White House, providing a check on presidential power. No such safeguard exists in Britain – the prime minister is, by definition, leader of his party and his party controls parliament.

If we insist on seeing the prime minister as a president, we encourage demagoguery, with little recourse when it occurs. We have only to look to recent history to understand the dangers. Tony Blair, who ignored his cabinet and rode roughshod over parliament, is the closest Britain has come to a president.

The British are supposed to elect a party, not a person. The way to inject meaning into this election is to bear that fact in mind. Individuals are easily caricatured, turned into cardboard cutouts suitable for television.

Parties are not; because they are a collection of diverse people, they will always retain the texture, nuance and complexity appropriate to a meaningful election.

The indications are that the debates sparked immense interest, especially among those otherwise apolitical. That is perhaps a good thing, but we have to question the worth of engagement if it occurs at such a banal level. On Thursday night we witnessed the future and it looks a lot like Britain's Got Talent. Pour me a Budweiser and pass the Velveeta; the show's about to begin.

Gerard DeGroot is a professor of modern history at the University of St Andrews.