In a Stew

Maybe it is the miserable weather, the endless swathes of horizontal rain sweeping across the painfully beautiful landscape, visible through our lovely new, very large windows. Could it be the ghostly howling winds or the short, dark days, grinding their way towards the long-awaited elasticating of sunlight hours. Whatever it is, I cannot be quiet. I am well miffed. And what has caused this miffery this time? A book. A very, very good book which has kicked my ovaries into gear and made me realise and remember so much stuff that went on and that has passed into the annuls of my dreadful non-memory. Rory Stewart and his Politics on the Edge has catapulted me backwards and pulled a lot of wool from my tired eyes. I am awash with ‘OMGs!’ and ‘That explains its’ and ‘Jesus, I didn’t realise that Cameron had appointed Pratty Patel and Liz Blunderbuss to his cabinet.’ Thank you, Rory for delivering what I can only describe as a belting good read and a spectacularly uncomfortable journey into politics as we would rather not know it. Whether we like it or not, politics touches every part of our lives and in a healthy democracy that is why we should all vote and have our ‘voice heard’. How ball-achingly frustrating is it, then, when you read about how popularism has become so deeply embedded in the daily work of government that ticks are ticked because of can’t-be- arsedness, that integrity has been land-slid into oblivion and that political agenda is now a simple by-word for ‘what’s in it for me.’ I am only half-way through the book but I have embarrassingly learned that our Rors was MP for Penrith just up t’road, he knows more about Iraq and Afghanistan than you could shake a walking stick at, he’s a great hiker – sticks always useful, he challenges the ‘it’s just not rights’ (everybody needs a rebel at their side in life) and he articulates beautifully. He is my new head-candy and I am a bit middle-aged woman in love with him for both releasing me from my cringing ignorance about should-have-known-that-stuff and for reminding me that I was not going mad when madness and injustice abounded and went unchallenged and I used to scream at the tele about it.

Rors pulls no punches but I sincerely wish he did and that he had, right on the snout of Boris Ridiculus, Gove the Weasel and Wouldn’t Truss her as far I could throw her. That woman was once his boss. It must have been exasperating trying to communicate with a Cornflakes box. The poor lad must have bust a gut trying to get through the crinkly wrapper and then the cardboard. And as for the Whip. I now understand exactly what it means though I should have guessed from the word itself. Do as I say regardless of whether you think it is the right thing to do and damn your conscience. How the hell’s bells can that be right! Flagellate your principles. Lacerate your ideals. Just get your backside to Parliament when I bark and tick that box that says you back the banning of helping the poor or you totally agree with a reduction in prison staff or you jolly well agree to bombing the hell out of those interfering, pesky foreign buggers. Vote with us or be damned and demoted. Rors understands that it is not rocket science. He sees a clear path, one that makes sense to him. Lots of his colleagues often agree with him deep down but they have to disagree on paper because they will run the risk of having their wings clipped. You must side with the enemy. Talking of enemies, and as a slight aside, Rors informed my deficient brain that Farage is a former pupil of Dulwich School. I wonder if they have ever invited him back to Prize Giving. The private-schoolness of it all is revolting. My darling Rorito points out that there are many ‘normal’ MPs from all kinds of backgrounds in Parliament, but a disproportionate number hail from the bully boys’ clubs. It’s the back patters, the pocket fatteners and the slimy flatterers who have wormed themselves into the inner circle where the big stuff gets decided. If you are not a Minister, then good luck getting anything done because the buck stops with them and, of course, Mr or Ms Whippy who will ceremoniously whip your chocolate flake from your Ninety Niner if you don’t lick the right bottoms.  

And as for percentages, well, never was maths a sadder science. Did you know that in an election, first past the post means exactly that even if it is only by one vote, even if there are ten candidates standing? I knew that but I had never really crunched the numbers properly to truly grasp the ludicrous implications. I understand all about tactical voting even though it feels totally wrong every time I do it. I vote basically to prevent the other ones getting in, not because I trust the side I vote for. Madness. So, let’s say we have ten candidates in a constituency. Candidate A is Angry Angie who wants to ban dogs. Candidate B is Billy Bonkers who believes in enforced vegetarianism. Candidate C is Carol Conservative who…. Well, we all know what she wants though she will probably be into whipping before she knows it if not already. Candidate D is Derek the Dalek who talks to aliens. Candidate E is Eric Ecstasy who wants to legalise all hallucinogenic drugs and have them free on the NHS. Etc etc etc. Ten of them including the must have Labour Linda and Lionel the Liberal Democrat. There are roughly 70,000 people in each constituency. So, imagine that on a really good day, 50% of the locals get off their tushes and turn out to vote. That’s 35,000 potential votes. For ease of calculations and, stretching the laws of probability a little, let’s say each candidate wins 3499 tickettyboos except Derek who refuses to be exterminated. He wins 3509. Go Derek. You are the new MP for Barking even though you only have the enthusiastic support of 5% of the peeps in your constituency. That’s democracy, folks. Derek will head for London, armed with his briefcase and expenses claims form and sit voice- modulating on the backbenches for a few years, scoffed and ignored because he doesn’t fit the mould. D. Who? Voting matters if only to honour those who fought for the right for us all to have a go.

So, Rors, you’ve tweaked my drawers and all I can think about now is how imbalanced this crazy country is and how greasy and sleezy our Parliament truly is when a donkey like Bojo the Clown was once the ass of choice for our ‘leading’ party. I apologise on behalf of the finger-licking nutjobs in Parliament who had their tongues ready to go wherever it took to feed their own egos and hedge their bets and line their fancy suit pockets with nudge-nudge winks and want-to-buy-a-watch connivery. And I am sincerely sorry that you were lied to, deceived, mocked, misled, fobbed off and patronised but happily, never cynicised. In my eyes, you are a true, right-honourable gentleman where others dishonour the title. If the vast majority can’t turn out for a normal election, then how could it have made any sense whatsoever to give Joe Public, armed with bigoted lies and exaggerated tales of European monsterism, carte blanche to wee in the wind and watch the waves crash against our walls? And then Cameron, unprepared to dig us out of the hole he had dug, jumped off the sinking ship when his arrogant referendum went tits up. I don’t think Mr Stewart liked you very much, David and he certainly clarified a few things for me. Cameron really left us in a right old dilly of a pickle, in a complete stew. If only it had been a Stewart. You would have got my vote. Unless, of course, Derek had been standing.