Tag Archives: election


6 Jun

The sun wasn’t shining when Laura Pinner went to cast her vote. It couldn’t be because her heart was hanging low as she entered the polling station and looked around at the desk where the officials were sitting, and then at the kiddies drawings on the wall. It was the local school, closed for the day for such an important event, and the sun went further away when she saw her daughter’s simple picture with a golden star stuck to it by the teacher.

But today was polling day and nothing mattered save the vote. She sniffed and presented her card to the Returning Officer, who smiled at her and told her it wasn’t that bad, surely?

Because she was crying.

She shook her head. The sun would never return to wash over her spirit. It couldn’t. There was no light where he thoughts went, no warmth, not even the tiniest glow.

She looked at the voting paper.

Memories came flooding back.

Her parents had always agreed over politics. At least, daddy had expressed an opinion and mummy had smiled and nodded and poured some tea.

Daddy knew which side his bread was buttered. He was on a ladder and he told everyone about it. With no special education he’d set foot on the bottom rung of the ladder and slowly, almost painfully, managed to reach the second after ten years of struggle. But he was on the way up! The government was seeing to that, the men and women in Parliament and the laws they passed that guaranteed that the factory owners would make a killing, would grab hold of the gigantic cake of industry, but he, on that precious ladder, was in an ideal position to catch a few crumbs. And the crumbs had been there, some of them, morsels of goodness, a few savoury droppings from his master’s plate.

So daddy had sallied forth every election day and voted Conservative. It was his duty. It would ensure that every tomorrow saw the cascade of crumbs all nice and precious for him to try to grab. It guaranteed that life would always promise to be good, one day, when this or that boat came in.

Daddy had died a year or so ago. He’d been proudly on the fourth step and so much of the climb still lay ahead, but work had taken its toll and his heart hadn’t been up to it. The strain had been too much and the crumbs, regrettably, too few.

She looked back at the voting paper and the names on it.

Mummy had been a real joy. Although she’d never agreed with daddy because she saw things a great deal more clearly, she’d never argued or rowed about politics but gently, like the woman she was, gone her own way. Daddy had never bothered about the way she voted because he was sure that she voted the same way as him because that was the right thing to do. She had to. There were the crumbs to think about. But on the sly she’d been an independent person with a mind of her own and always voted the way she felt. Despising extremes, she’d always voted Liberal and then, when things changed, Liberal Democrat. Laura knew that and thought it a wonderful breath of fresh air, that mummy had voted differently from daddy, that she’d been her own woman. But grief had been too much for her and taken her, and she’d died too.

She looked back at her voting paper and shook her head.

The picture on the wall made tears form in her eyes again when she caught the least glimpse of it.

Sophie had drawn it, Sophie had painted it so carefully it was a miracle of a child’s talent, and Mrs Blossom had stuck a gold star on it and praised the girl and whispered effusive commendations into her ear.

But wonderful as that was it hadn’t cured the cancer.

Sophie was only eight, and she had cancer. And not so long ago she’d died in an overcrowded children’s ward where they just couldn’t get their hands on enough nurses or medicines or doctors or anything important.

Sophie had been an angel, but the shortages and the wonderfully unsuccessful austerity caused by bankers and their mischief a decade or more ago had helped her die. They’d said her time would be limited anyway, that the cancer was so evil and so unresponsive to any kind of treatment and most certainly inoperable that she would have died sooner or later.

But like she did?

A great deal was being said about the cost of health. Politicians had rowed about it. They made promises, all of them hollow, none of them going to help Sophie because Sophie was dead and so was Laura’s heart.

She went into the voting booth. Nobody could see her. Nobody would know until she’d cast her vote.

Which she did in the fleetest of moments.

She placed her voting paper in front of her and took a blade from her small perfect handbag and, closing her eyes, slashed it as deeply as she could across her own left wrist.

And when she opened her eyes she smiled to see so much blood.

With barely a tremor she marked a cross, in the purest and reddest of blood, on her voting paper, and then closed her eyes again.

She was in that voting booth for quite a long time before someone noticed the pool of blood oozing under the curtain that made her voting secret, and raced to see what might be wrong.

An ambulance was called, but too late. There’s only so much blood in a frail woman’s body, and she had used all of hers to mark a simple cross.

“She voted labour,” muttered the officer, and he slipped her paper into the voting box before glancing at the pretty picture by a child called Sophie and thinking how lucky everyone was to have such a child in the world.

© Peter Rogerson 03.06.17



6 May


cavemen photo: cavemen sptfc063.jpg

As many of you may be aware, Owongo was a distant ancestor of mine, living early in the Old Stone Age, though he didn’t call it that. He merely referred to the times he lives in as “our days”.

Democracy in Owongo’s early stone age was a given, though.

It had to be: there were too few people in Owongo’s settlement for there to be anything other than democracy. After all, any important decision regarding the well-being of the entire community was taken by the entire community in a meeting attended by both dozen of them. Even baby Owongii had a vote, Owongii being Owongo’s youngest son and just short of what would be his first birthday when birthdays came to be recognised, which they weren’t back then.

And Owongo was, for the time being, the chief.

There was no vote. No secret ballot. No long convoluted period of electioneering. No Flintstone-style buses carrying the candidates from cave to cave in order that they might tell their lies to one and all in the intimacy of their own homes.

In fact, there were no lies.

That might seem hard to believe in our enlightened modern age with protracted periods set aside for lying. But back in the days when Owongo was, for the time being, chief of his tribe it was expected that in all things he would be truthful. No telling extraordinary tales of a wild bear rampaging in the almond groves a day’s good march from the settlement because he wanted to sneak all the almonds for himself. No accusing the painted spearmen from the other side of the valley floor of incursions into their territory because he fancied battle and bloodshed. No. Nothing like that.

It was expected that the Chief (which, for the time being, was Owongo) would be truthful and he was, with the smirking exception that he occasionally exaggerated the dimensions of his own penis when the subject cropped up, amazingly honest.

And if he were ever to be found lying there was a fit punishment for him, one that involved stones and the nearby duck pond and certain death. It had to be so, for if a leader was to guide a small tribe wrongly then the whole tribe might be wiped out at the drop of what in the future would be called a hat. One ill-considered decision would be all it might take for the limping tiger from the mountain reaches to not be seen and notice not taken of his whereabouts and consequently his hunger-driven attack not be prevented. Those were serious days and the Chief (in the current instance Owongo) had to be careful how he trod and what he said.

The time had come for the selection of a new Chief (not I use the word “selection” rather than “election”. Owongo was quite happy being Chief and the tribe was perfectly content that he was a good Chief, but after the turning of a year, when the snows went away (if there were any – it didn’t snow many winters but the people knew when it should snow and consequently were perfectly aware of when those snows should melt and be gone) it was deemed necessary to appoint a Chief for the forthcoming period – until this time next year, though the word year wasn’t in common usage.

So a meeting was called, and because it was a particularly important event a feast was prepared, fermented liquors in fired jars were called for and mischievous herbs cast into the glowing embers at the edge of the fire in order to relax the minds of any who chanced to inhale their fumes.

There was, of course, music, a rhythmic sort, created by a wild variety of percussion instruments, that pounded until it was in the minds of everyone present. The liquor was passed round until everyone could see everyone else in duplicate, and speeches were called for.

Owongo, as the outgoing Chief made his speech, a coherent affair in which he praised himself, his woman and his offspring ( and the might of his penis) whilst the rest of the small tribe applauded. Then there was a silence because second on the unwritten agenda he had called for volunteers to replace him, and in order to reduce the silence before it became embarrassing he nominated himself for another term in office, but made no promises.

He merely said “Owongo Chief again…”

And there was rapturous applause of approval, he smiled, his woman nursed Owongii at her adequate breasts and then Owongo sat next to her. The election was over.

And note: I repeat: no promises were made. No lies were told. They had the system just about right.

Hurrah for them!

© Peter Rogerson 06.05.15


20 Apr

*Parts 1 and 2 are on my Facebook page.


voting paper photo: voting i-hate-voting.gif  We are being pressed to vote.

And voting is one thing we should all do. After all, it took our forefathers long enough to get the right for us to help choose who governs us. And by governs I means rules. Or robs us. Or deceives us with his/her lies.

So the party leaders put in appearances on our television sets, either in what they like to call “Party Political Broadcasts” or in more serious debates about what they want us to think is important. If they can be bothered, that is.

They think the upgrading of a nuclear arsenal is important. Most of them, that is. Whether the kind of stalemate that is the result of nuclear proliferation works is another debate, but in this one my opinion is that it’s a bloody expensive way of maybe, possibly, could be ensuring some kind of fallout-free future for our kids and grandkids.

They say that preserving the NHS is important. Of course it is! Who could deny that? Only the rich fat cats equipped with silver spoons at birth and wearing blue ties. Because they see where profit can be made. That’s their mantra, their addiction. Profit. Is there a detox clinic anywhere that might free them of their addiction and turn them into normal human beings? I doubt it – and if there was it’d be taxed out of existence by now.

But none of this is the gist of my argument.

The leaders of this or that political party are present on a virtually daily basis. “Vote for me!” they cry, trying to hide the arrogance shining from their eyes. Because they know one thing we all know but maybe temporarily forget. We can’t vote for them however hard me might try – not unless we live in their constituency, that is. They lead a party and if that party gets the most members sitting on parliamentary benches they become the nation’s leader. And we choose those members. Not them.

It’s a two edged sword, though.

And one edge has to do with me not trusting some of them. I mean, who could possibly trust Cameron when he tries to confuse us with his rhetoric in which the words “billions” attached to a few numbers and “percentage” apropos of some of those billions appear with boring regularity?

I could ask him a few questions that have nothing to do with billions, just percentages, like if our economy is doing as well as he boasts why is VAT still at 20% when he hiked it from 17.5% as a response to the international economic crisis?

Then there’s Milliband. Could I trust a man who virtually stabbed his own brother in the back in order to get the party leadership? And how would he look as a giant on the world stage? With or without elocution lessons?

And Clegg. Supervisor of the destruction of centre politics in this country, the man who claims to have moderated the worst excesses of his conservative greedy chums – but where’s the real evidence? He’s had five years as high as he’ll ever go, and he knows it. A wasted vote there, then.

And don’t mention Farage! I’m not old enough to remember the way Germany swung so far right under the whispered machinations (did I say whispered? I meant bellowed) of one Adolf Hitler but I can see something of the sort ticking over in the Farage mind. Did I say mind? I meant nightmares…

Who could trust any of these wannabe leaders of what is really quite a decent country? Not me, so I have to look elsewhere to place my vote, the one my forefathers fought long and hard to get for me – not that I actually get a chance to vote for any of them. The system doesn’t work that way.

So I’ve looked elsewhere. Good for me!

© Peter Rogerson 20.04.15