voting . . . what’s that about?

To celebrate election day, the wonder that is democracy, and the fact that Leeds is a few Tory councillors lighter tonight, I have decided to appoint myself political editor of Culture Vultures. How hard could that be? Already in this first paragraph I have exerted more energy, applied more effort and squeezed out more thought than ever I’ve needed to expend on politics at any time over the past four years, if you don’t count finding my way to the polling station this morning and scrawling a big kiss next to the only candidate I didn’t go to school with.

After some extensive research – well, I called my uncle Tommy who once wrote a letter to the Yorkshire Post complaining that a prospective candidate for a party that shall remain nameless had stolen his genius ideas about immigration, the nearest anyone in my family ever came to political engagement – I found out that a political reporter’s job is to hang around the pubs nearest where the votes are counted and harass anyone wearing a rosette. Seemed like a fun way to while away a Friday afternoon, I thought. Actually seemed pretty much how I spent most of my afternoons, minus the rosette bit.

For the purposes of focus and manageability (and the fact that Culture Vultures does not provide an expense account) I limited my observations to the four or five Wetherspoons pubs in the city centre.

In the Hedley Verity I met Jim Bagger, a red rosette from Beeston. He said he was over the moon with the result, just over the moon. He told me, over a pint of Pendle Witch, that it was brilliant that Labour had won more seats, a real boot in the balls for Cameron, a right kick in the nuts. The voters of Beeston and Holbeck had sent a clear message to the Bullingdon boys. a message in no uncertain terms, that it was writing on the wall for the Tories, time for the bankers to smell the coffee, pack up and leave, leave the country and remember to turn the lights off when they went. It was certain, he asserted, that there was an overwhelming anti-coalition majority in Beeston and Holbeck. Absolute fact. The bastards.

In the train station I bumped into a blue rosette, from Adel, who introduced himself as M M R Cudworth Sturgeon, or Max to me. Max seemed stoical in defeat and resilient in the face of undeniable difficulties. We’ll bounce back, he said, cheerily, swashing his fizz all over my shoes; when you hit rock bottom it pays to pack a pick axe. It’s just a case of mid term blues, he assured me, the pendulum always strangles the party in power, and there’s no reason to worry, when the real election comes the bats will always fly out of the woodwork. The fact that so few people bothered to vote – only a third, not exactly encouraging to the barricade botherers – meant that this was actually a vote in favour of the government. Not apathy, but unspoken assent, actually a vote of confidence from the strong, silent majority. It was a sign, actually a signal, signalling something significant, a sign from the people of Adel that they are gagging – yes, gagging – to get real, get serious, and get on with the job of clearing up the mess left by the previous party in power. This low turn out is a message to Cameron – put the foot down, harder! Put the foot in a boot and start stamping! Austerity measures, we haven’t even begun. The people of Adel are clearly in favour of tightening the screws. Putting nuts in the vice. Tightening the gag. And stamping. Stamping harder. Yo, more Champagne!

The third person I saw in the Cuthbert Brodrick wore a yellow rosette. It didn’t feel like the time to ask questions. It’s just not done to intrude upon a private grief. Even political reporters have a heart. I bought a large glass of Chenin Blanc and placed it on the table before him. A steady plop plop plop of tears feel into his wine.

Next I came upon Iona Bespoke-Boutique in the pub on Park Row, an Independent from Chapel Allerton. Fabulous, she cooed, the result is perfectly fabulous. Our share of the vote rocketed! We are close to triple figures now, whilst the vote for traditional parties stagnates or shrivels. This is Chapel Allerton’s way of telling the clapped out two party system that its days are numbered. It’s time to do things differently. Differently is the way we do things as independents, when we do things, independently, we do them not in the same old way, but different to the way they have been done before by different people, independent of the way things are done, and have been done when people in the past did things, pastly. Past people. People in the past weren’t independent. This vote is a clear vote for things to be different, next time. In the future. And next time the result will be different, I’m absolutely convinced. Independently. That’s the future. Can I get you a glass of wheat grass?

Lastly I managed to to find a member of the Green Alliance of Socialists in the Public Sector (GASPS) in the Stick or Twist, who handed me a leaflet claiming that the result in Bradford lopped the head off the wilted lettuce of local government . . . and I thought it was about time to relinquish my role as political pundit. I needed a proper drink.

Perhaps I’m going to stick to talking drivel about pretend stuff, I haven’t got a clue what these people are on about. They were all a bit scary to be honest. Not the sort of people I’d choose to spend good drinking time with. Why does politics do that to people? Or does politics attract the doomed, demented, and desperate? Is that the problem?

Maybe someone could volunteer to explain politics to me? You know where I am. There’s a bottle of wine waiting. Just don’t be freaky!