Elections as a bloodsport – are you not entertained?

As a dedicated political voyeur, I used to love British elections. Watching the mighty fall, the underdog triumph and the status quo thrown upside down. Staying up all night while the hacks struggled for something meaningful to say. And finally, exhilaration or despair as the ones you wanted or didn’t want stood on the steps of 10, Downing Street and spouted pious nonsense.

My involvement would be limited to voting. No canvassing, demos, silly rosettes, milkshake throwing or insult hurling. And anyway, elections tended to be a bit less histrionic back in the day. By and large, people behaved themselves. There was the occasional joke candidate. The odd irritable TV debate. But the back and forth rarely descended to the sewer level. By and large, the liars covered their tracks, and one party would usually refrain from direct accusations of lying against their opponents.

Perhaps I’m drawing on faulty memories, but I seem to recall that there was a basic level of respect for the participants in process. Politicians would reserve their fiercest vituperation for private conversations that couldn’t be picked up by Alexa and open mics..

Not now. Insults, cheap stunts, lies and accusations of wrongdoing are now common currency. If you can’t deal in that currency, you have no place in modern politics. And when you vote for the dog-shaggers, you get what you pay for. Shaggy dogs on steroids.

When did all this stuff begin? In the US, was it the coming of Trump, or, a couple of decades before him, Newt Gingrich, his John the Baptist ?

In the UK, was it Enoch Powell? Surely not, because whatever else you might say about him, Powell expressed his opinions in words of more than one syllable and with a measure of civility. If we point to the emergence of Nigel Farage, we mustn’t forget the backers who bankrolled him and his various “parties”. And we should also point the finger at the social media, whose creators broke the monopoly on opinion-forming previously held by the print and broadcast media.

And of course we should look in the mirror at ourselves. Twenty years ago, was it an accident that Russell Crowe in Gladiator rips his opponent to pieces and turns to the crowd, screaming “are you not entertained?”? In the case of the millions who saw the movie, the answer was surely yes. As it surely is today. Is it an accident that in recent months you can look at countless videos on Twitter/X showing Russian soldiers being blown to smithereens by Ukrainian drones? And today, a video of a wounded man being put out of his misery by his comrade?

There are no limits, it seems. And yes, our capacity to be entertained seems endless, as is the supply of political wannabees prepared to deliver that entertainment. It’s ironic that this election is taking place during a football tournament involving the England team. The thugs and drunkards are still to be found on the terraces, but nowadays they have their counterparts in the House of Commons. Or did until the King, as an act of mercy, dissolved it. Not forgetting those who rode into deep waters for groping colleagues, snorting coke and betting on the date of the election, of course.

Where am I going with this? Elections are about broad brush. Government is about detail, usually hidden underneath the broad brush, and often in a completely different direction to the brush strokes. An example: afraid of the reaction of the voters against tax rises? Answer: stealth taxes, buried in the small print.

There’s nothing new in such tactics. During an election, there are armies of politicians, researchers and journalists ready to flush out suspicious contradictions. But what is new, at least in my perception, is that the vast majority of voters don’t care about the detail. All they see is the brush strokes.

I was about to go on and say that not only are most voters uninterested in details (except those that directly concern them), but that a good proportion of them are too lazy (or distracted by the football) to pay any attention to the narratives propagated by the parties if it contradicts their own prejudices (as in immigrants, Brexit and so on).

Then I realised that I’m one of those people whose prejudices are set in concrete, even if my party loyalties aren’t. That said, in 50 years of voting I’ve never gone with the Conservative. So I do have an open mind: anyone but the Tories. That being the case, when the Reform Party leaflet dropped though my letterbox, I thought that I should give them a chance to impress me, even though Nigel Farage, their “leader” is someone that would have me hanging myself from the nearest palm tree should I be unfortunate enough to end up in his company on an otherwise desert island.

My local Reform candidate is an elderly gentleman whose gin-soaked tonic facial complexion appears to have been washed away by the suitable use of photoshop. He looks at the camera with an expression of pugnacious chippiness. His platform, presumably reflecting the party’s primary messages, is all negative. Control immigration, leave the European HR Court, cut taxes, scrap Net Zero targets and so on.

I managed to find a video of him talking to a local online magazine. He speaks with a whiny voice, and comes out with the usual disclaimers before launching in his dog whistle stuff: I’m not being racist, but….; I’m not a nimby, but…..” He looks like the kind of guy who would spend thousands of pounds fighting with his neighbours over leylandii forest at the end of his garden, or on a dispute over six inches of his boundary.

In addition to his portrait, there’s a photo of him at his desk. Pen in one hand, keyboard under the other. A painting of a diving Spitfire on the wall behind him, next to a fake brass candle wall lamp, probably courtesy of Homebase. His face is composed into a smirk which I’ve seen often on his leader (see the leaflet above). Perhaps Farage sends all his candidates to a special smirk school in Clacton or East Grinstead.

The gentleman wants us to believe that the Tory Party has “moved to the left” and are no longer conservative. He ends by saying that “if you want to save Britain, vote for what you believe in, vote for Reform UK.” Indeed. I’m resolved to do the former, which unfortunately doesn’t translate into the latter. As for saving Britain, I’m not sure I can influence its future one way or another.

Anyway, we only have another ten days or so of this. I’ve managed to avoid the debates, the policy discussions convened by the various TV stations and, by and large, the political columns of the national newspapers.

All I care about is that the current government is booted out of power, and that whoever follows them is booted out in much shorter order than the current rabble managed to cling on for. Whatever the next lot do will only be partly within their control, so the best wishes we send to the next government will be laced with strong degree of luck – for us rather than for them.

And what then? On July 5^th, will we be singing “things can only get better” as we surf on a wave of optimism, or “yesterday” as we wallow in the despair of the dispossessed? How long will it take before hope is replaced by disappointment, and despair by sullen pessimism? How many former ministers will find safe harbour in the cosy consultancies they lined up well before their demise? And how many memoirs will sell 257 copies over the next five years?

Finally, what do we retired political junkies have to look forward to in the months to come? Ah yes, The Felon’s Last Stand. At least that’s what I’m praying for. Any other outcome would be a cataclysm. But enough of the Orange Monster for now. Let’s get the next few days out of the way.  There are enough diversions, from the cricket and the footie and all those box sets I haven’t started yet, to keep me away from the politics.

The last time Labour got in for any length of time was in 1997, when Tony Blair was the man of the hour. My wife and I were at an election party. As I cheered the results coming in for Labour, our hostess fixed me with a beady eye, and accused me of betraying my country. Should anyone be foolish enough to invite me to a knees-up this time round, I shall keep my mouth shut, in case someone’s tempted to blow my head off with a shotgun – a reaction the would definitely be in tune with the times.

Best to stay at home, unless the Dalai Llama’s planning to have a do.

I wait for the 4th July with quivering anticipation.