Vote vote vote!
Election fever has gripped the nation leaving voters sweaty, blotchy and with a bad taste in their mouth.
In the run up to yesterday’s local council elections (may the fourth be with you indeed) Macnabbs towers was visited by two canvassers, one for the yellow bird party (whom I actually knew, she used to run the local comic shop) and one for the vile blue tory swine party. This last I gave ‘feedback’ to, if feedback can be described as a ten minute rant about the feckless goons that constitute their parliamentary party.
On polling day itself political busybodies were at their most animated. As I stood at the front gate, polling card in hand and about to stroll off down the street to indulge in a bit of light electoring, some lib dem activist strolled up the bloody front path and asked me if I had voted yet.
Replying that I was about to, he gave either a nod of satisfaction or a spasm and hurried off to annoy somebody else.
It wasn’t intimidation on the scale practiced by our European or African friends, but I have to tell you the sight of a grow (or rather, shrunken) pensioner coming towards me wearing a tee shirt and a sports jacket filled me with dread. I thought for one dreadful moment he was going to offer me a lift to the polls which conjured forth images of sharing some sort of municipal minibus with the sort of people who don’t like to walk, wash or control their bladder. Spending a few hours in the back of a black maria all those years ago was enough for me, thank you so very much.
Voted and came home. On telly, BBC was gearing up for an all night vote counting marathon. Obviously the entire BBC budget for the year has been split between the Dr Who special effects team and the news special effects team, as the map of this glorious nation lit up red, blue, yellow and god knows what colour for the loony councils.
As I type, the results are in and the PM is re-shuffling the cabinet. One hopes that he is a keen viewer of that dreadful ‘apprentice’ programme and, pointing a finger over the desk, screams ‘you’re fired’ at various Ministers. This is unlikely.
Finally, on the subject of the PM, voting and so on - news clip of the day was the charming Mrs PM replying to a tory councillor who had cheekily asked ‘can I count on your vote’ - ‘fat chance’. Lovely! I don’t have a problem with her being completely devoid of charm and grace, or being seemingly incapable of having a decent photograph taken of her, I don’t even have a problem with the genetic modifications that have left her constructed mainly of teeth and hair but really, does she have to be so fucking charmless?
In the run up to yesterday’s local council elections (may the fourth be with you indeed) Macnabbs towers was visited by two canvassers, one for the yellow bird party (whom I actually knew, she used to run the local comic shop) and one for the vile blue tory swine party. This last I gave ‘feedback’ to, if feedback can be described as a ten minute rant about the feckless goons that constitute their parliamentary party.
On polling day itself political busybodies were at their most animated. As I stood at the front gate, polling card in hand and about to stroll off down the street to indulge in a bit of light electoring, some lib dem activist strolled up the bloody front path and asked me if I had voted yet.
Replying that I was about to, he gave either a nod of satisfaction or a spasm and hurried off to annoy somebody else.
It wasn’t intimidation on the scale practiced by our European or African friends, but I have to tell you the sight of a grow (or rather, shrunken) pensioner coming towards me wearing a tee shirt and a sports jacket filled me with dread. I thought for one dreadful moment he was going to offer me a lift to the polls which conjured forth images of sharing some sort of municipal minibus with the sort of people who don’t like to walk, wash or control their bladder. Spending a few hours in the back of a black maria all those years ago was enough for me, thank you so very much.
Voted and came home. On telly, BBC was gearing up for an all night vote counting marathon. Obviously the entire BBC budget for the year has been split between the Dr Who special effects team and the news special effects team, as the map of this glorious nation lit up red, blue, yellow and god knows what colour for the loony councils.
As I type, the results are in and the PM is re-shuffling the cabinet. One hopes that he is a keen viewer of that dreadful ‘apprentice’ programme and, pointing a finger over the desk, screams ‘you’re fired’ at various Ministers. This is unlikely.
Finally, on the subject of the PM, voting and so on - news clip of the day was the charming Mrs PM replying to a tory councillor who had cheekily asked ‘can I count on your vote’ - ‘fat chance’. Lovely! I don’t have a problem with her being completely devoid of charm and grace, or being seemingly incapable of having a decent photograph taken of her, I don’t even have a problem with the genetic modifications that have left her constructed mainly of teeth and hair but really, does she have to be so fucking charmless?
3 Comments:
You mean to say you're not a Tory???
PS. Hope you're celebrating Cinco de Mayo since you are good at making Mexican dinners.
Obviously I am celebrating it by being rude to the Franch. This is fun but difficult, as you have to overcome the tremendous background rudess that is their base state.
But yes, it's Fajitas tonight for tea! With home-made guac. Well, not totally home made, I mean, I bought to avacado.
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