I’ve actually quite enjoyed this election campaign.
Don’t get me wrong, I’ve not lost my fucking mind. I haven’t been glued to leaders’ debates and party election broadcasts, desperate for a fix of election smack to see me through to the next Andrew Neil interview. I’ve quite enjoyed this one because it’s the first time in my adult life I’ve treated it with the same level of interest and respect owed to a hair-pulling girl fight at a Bolton comprehensive.
See, I gave up on the British voter in 2015. Five years of needy nurses and rising rents had been caused by Tory cuts, tempered only slightly by the lovable Lib Dems. Understandable then that voters would take one look at Ed Miliband eating a bacon sandwich, think “He didn’t get that from a food bank, what does he know about how WE live?” and flock en masse to the party of Iain Duncan Smith. The referendum just made me laugh.
So when the shifty librarian these wankers put in charge last year decided to ask the British people yet again what they thought of her party, assuming a resounding thank you thank you thank you for keeping us safe while crossing rivers, it was clear from the off I’d be finding better things to do.
Checking in the early afternoon each day what old Donald’s been up to on Twitter, for example. The he-said-what whiplash he creates within his own administration has been the top treat of 2017 so far. I’ve also been watching my formerly strong and stable office job turn to shit over the course of a month, ironically while the ‘Ministerial Strategy Visits Team’ try to out-important each other by braying the words ‘Secretary of State’ and ‘Number 10’ just across the way there. Oh I’ve found much to occupy myself these past weeks.
But it’s hard to avoid politics entirely. At least I’m getting better at picking up the highlights and avoiding the dross, by which I mean UKIP and Plaid Cymru. Leanne, look, I can’t vote for your party so get off my bloody TV can you, yeah? And Paul, please fall in a ditch. Filled with scorpions. Immigrant scorpions.
Problematic vicar Tim Farron has provided a gem or two. I genuinely sympathise with the man when he’s asked whether being gay is a sin. There’s a flash behind the eyes as he thinks “Since sin is defined as ‘anything the Bible says is wrong’ then, based on logic alone, of course it’s a fucking sin”. Don’t say that though Tim, that’s no vote winner. In 21st century Britain the Bible has about as much relevance to right and wrong as The Warlock of Firetop Mountain, but it still has the power to make the imbeciles who believe it flounder in the face of Laura fucking Kuenssberg’s journalistic dexterity.
Diane Abbott has been highly amusing, as the former recipient of Jeremy Corbyn and the place where details go to die. She has been retired from her post, a day before the election, I have just been informed. Illness, they say. Is haplessness a disease now? Yes yes when it turns out to be a massive tumour I’m certain I’ll regret such cynicism. Certain of it. I’ll miss you, Diane.
Scotland continues to make no sense. I don’t want another referendum so I’d better vote Conservative. Could do mate, could do that yeah. I mean, that Ruth Davidson sat on a bull once. Obviously they’ll come at your highland coos with redcoats on horseback and they’ll ban Buckfast on terrorist grounds, but don’t let that stop you. When asked on the TV last night why she liked Theresa May, one Scottish woman replied with a cackle: “I like her shoes!”
Yes that’s right! That’s how you decide! Sandwiches and sin and shoes and fucking hell he won’t say he’ll press the nuclear button to kill millions so how can we trust him with public sector pay? That’s how you do it, Britain!
And that’s how you’ll do it. Pubs and bars across the country tonight will be filled with people in the crucial 18-25 demographic, with every intention of voting, as though hangovers don’t exist. ‘Why don’t young people vote?’ will be the plaintive cry. Because Britain hates itself and drinks to forget, and forgets to vote. We hold these truths to be self-evident, hic, bblurrrgh.
No matter how tight ‘the polls’ have become, you’ll be waking up Friday having voted the Tories back in with a larger majority. Despite Corbyn having apparently galvanised a nation’s youth at huge rallies across the land, they’ll still round on him once again when that nation’s pensioners have had their senile say. Theresa May will take us into the promised land of the 19th century when the EU don’t see a need to give us anything we ask for, because why the hell would they? Nicola Sturgeon will continue to try to hunt down that lone Lib Dem MP in Scotland, whereareyayabastardyou. With tragic inevitability, it’s a warm welcome back for Nick Clegg.
But I don’t care. Hope died two years back. I will still vote myself, for one reason. I’ll vote Green because if anyone still cares they’ll look at the 1,306 people in my constituency who do so and think “Well, that’s one better than 1,305. One extra person who cares more about trees than cars. One less Briton putting profit above poverty. One more voter with an eye to a happier, peaceful future we can never, ever have.”
One vote. No point. Do as you will, Britain. I have the sneaking suspicion it won’t change a damn thing.