In those two weeks, I’ve been ill. I had a half term cold that wiped me out, went back to school and lost my voice. The PM launched his campaign where the Titanic was built, stood under an exit sign, planted Conservative councillors to ask questions at a factory visit, got an aide to stand in front of a gurning woman, lied about £2000 - upsetting the civil servants, gave an election broadcast that included the international sign of distress of flying the uk flag upside down, stood in front of another sign that gave him Mickey Mouse ears, was photobombed by the Lib Dems in a small boat he couldn’t stop, left a D-day event early and with all the election debates, it has, frankly, been an awful time. Funny but awful .
Debates make me angry. Not in the way you might think. I don’t get riled up in the way they hope we will, causing us to pick a side. No. I shout, ‘What are you doing? This isn’t you!’ at the TV. Something happens to politicians during an election campaign and that something is ugly.
Very little of what politicians do involves shouting at each other. They all (yes, even the Conservatives but maybe not Farrage) took the job because they want to help people. They are all trying to make society work collectively.
The day to day job involves very little shouting. Often. people from different parties work together, making policies, spending money and sharing ideas to make our lives better. That’s the aim.
If you can keep that in mind, then watching the weekly shouting matches are fun. Thirty minutes of Prime Minister’s questions (PMQs) every Wednesday between 12 and 12.30 is an awful display of vitriolic testosterone that, taken in context, is enjoyable. Going to watch one live is on my retirement bucket list. Then there is a version on the BBC (which isn’t as good since Dimpledknees retired) that appeals to political nerds. The shouty hour is usually on after most sensible people are asleep and that’s the way it should be.
However, in the run up to an election the broadcasters decide that everyone wants to watch Fiona Bruce talk over people. (I wish she had stuck to antiques or the BBC had stuck with the antique DD). They show Question Time at 8pm, have panellists like Farrage and a poet who identifies as a duck because they know it will be a more entertaining shouting match. Awful. But people watch.
Each channel hosts its own election debates. ITV got the leader’s debate. Rishi turned up at the last minute, causing Robert Peston to tweet, ‘Phew, he’s arrived!’ He was flustered and lying. Keir looked fed up, sighing and closing his eyes. There were no winners.
Last night the BBC hosted a mass debate. The seven mass debaters (I do know how that sounds if you read it aloud) were from each party. Want to now vote SNP or the Welsh one that I can’t spell? You can’t. If you weren’t confused before, you are now. The woman who held the big pole at the Queen’s funeral was pure gall; spitting venomous bile throughout the studio that was so bad even she couldn’t stand the smell. Bizarrely, the Prime Minister, her boss, was also a target for her fury. It’s what happens when wild animals are backed into a corner and know they are about to die. None of this is edifying.
It worries me.
‘See! Politicians are all the same. Can’t trust anyone. I’m not voting.’
That’s a problem.
It’s our society that we are allowing them to run. They work for us. We get to choose them. Vote. Vote for anyone. Really, I mean it. Even if you think your vote makes no difference, it does. You have participated. Between 50% and 80% of people vote in each constituency, so unless you are in the highest turnout area and the usual candidate has more than a 20% lead then your vote could change things.
Sorry. I shouldn’t bang on at you about this. If you’ve read this far then you will vote because you are interested.
There is another 4 weeks of this and I don’t think I can cope with anymore. They don’t even appear to get weekends off. So, while I’m sitting in my garden, reading my book, I expect the Prime Minister to keep going with his splendid campaign. The plans for this weekend include going to Waitrose to help the Boy Scouts pack shopping and asking them if Bob-a-blow job is still as popular as it was when he was at Winchester College. Then he’ll go and draw a cock and balls on the cenotaph followed by a spot of lunch at a homeless shelter, where he’ll ask how their sourdough starter is going and demand avocado and caviar. Finally, he’ll remember that it’s kick a puppy day.
I’m also going to California in August but I’m going to allowed to come back.
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