There was a time, you know, when there was a decent interval between general elections. Being rarer, they tended to be more fun, mainly because I got the day off school, I guess.
The telly was on all night. Shocking, I know. I remember the TV on at breakfast time, with a grainy image of Harold Wilson waving at the front of No 10.
An election in those days was a couple of weeks of argy-bargy, then into the studio with Peter Snow waving his arms about, someone manning the Swingometer, Robin Day in the role of Paxman, and let’s not forget the occasional joyous moment when a crusty politician would turn up “tired and emotional”.
There would be a winner, with lots of MPs and a mandate for a manifesto they would promptly forget. Then they would all toddle off to Westminster, and we could all rest secure in the knowledge that at least 600 pop-eyed loons had been removed from the general population for at least a half a decade.
Not any more, my friends. This is a new world. Clearly now we must be ready to exercise our civic duty at a moment’s notice. I’m assuming they’re working on some sort of klaxon siren to alert us to the need to rush the booths and X-marks-the-spot with only a four-minute warning. These here elections are coming round faster than the whip-round sheets for departing Trump staff.
And nobody is winning. This is clearly our fault. Get out and vote, they say. Then when we do get out and bloody vote, they don’t like what we’ve done. We get blamed for having surges, like a post-menopausal woman on the Number 22 bus. (Lothian Buses. They always leave the heating on. No idea why.)
Oh, young people, they moan, they just won’t get off their bahookies and get down the polling booth. So, they did this time, and hoorah to you all, but now everyone is complaining about the trouble they’ve caused. Well, by everyone, I mean the people Theresa just fired.
I suspect Theresa would like new polling cards issued with instructions that the vote should only be used if the youngster is accompanied by a responsible adult, and preferably if that adult is a Daily Mail-reading pensioner from Eastbourne who has a fit of the vapours every time they spot an “immigrant”.
Now, this is perverse, but I am rather enjoying this rapid-cycle election process. There is nothing better than a politician who wants your vote.
Tall politician has short shelf life
Tall women like Theresa May scare me slightly. It’s the height thing.
They swan around supermarkets secure in the knowledge that they can sweep stuff off the top shelves while Glaswegian-heighted shorties like me beg for help to get the own-brand beans down.
I think she knows. I watched Theresa try to connect with that section of the electorate that has to stand on tippy toe to get a letter into the postbox. That’s the only explanation I can think of for that strange slumped posture she has taken to affecting. Either that or she’s carrying an invisible cat.
Perhaps her battery was failing. Can’t get way from the fact she came across as just a tad robotic. To be fair, there were times when I wondered if she was a Terminator-type cyborg. In which case, I suspect her software was managed by the same people who looked after British Airways.
Has anyone tried switching her off and on?
Shaggy scrubs up nicely in a suit
Ah, Mr Corbyn. It’s almost like an Ealing comedy. The plucky little backstage lad who suddenly gets his big chance. Bet Dave Cameron is regretting his fashion advice. Put on a suit, he said. People might vote for you then.
Jezza did, although he did look like a bloke poured into a new whistle-and-flute by concerned pals for a first date.
Well lo and behold, Dave from Oxfordshire was right. Suit up and watch the votes roll in, especially those youngsters.
Ah Theresa. You must feel like the bad guy in Scooby Do. You nearly got away with it, had it not been for those pesky kids.
Sunshine on Leith.. or else
A warm thank you to everyone who organises and staffs and picks up litter on Leith Gala Day – heck, to all the organisers of all the community festivals and Gala Days from the Meadows to Ratho.
Of course, we have a secret weapon in Leith. The mighty Mary Moriarty, a legend in the Kirkgate. I bumped into her on the Links during the Gala Day. She was looking rather fetching with flowers in her hair. It was a bit like watching the Queen go hippy.
I glanced skyward and said I hoped it wouldn’t rain.
Mary didn’t even raise her head. “It won’t”, she said, in the tone of voice that suggested that she, being strong and stable, would not allow it.