Living in the 'Free World' (patent disputed), possibly the biggest boon of this free world is that everyone is entitled to an opinion. Everyone. Take that, you banana republic saps! The problem therein is that everyone has one. An opinion. There's mine, bitch, take it. Oh, you have one too, how quaint, mine's better... And for what? Last I checked, my opinion only got me so far, maybe as far as the bar, when the debate was_
I think you've had enough_
Enough? Nawwwww, I'm alright for anotherrrr wan_
I think you've had enough_
Eurrrrrr, you'rrrrre always doin' this, ruinin' my fun, all I wanssapint..._
Look, I'm going home. Getting food and going. You can come or stay here._
Well, I'mmm stayin'. Fuck you, always bringin me down... What food you gettin though? Make more sense to share a taxi I suppose.. ._
And off to trot. The right words used and I crumble. Head of steam . Gone. My opinion only got me so far, until someone else's opinion outweighed/overruled mine. What happened to democracy, and gauging opinion? Valid as food pangs are, the drink pangs are also real. Is democracy dead, or am I just weak? And when I say weak, I mean; am I so hollowed and dead inside where any kind of resistance to my suggestions just reminds me of the sheer futility of it all; why bother, etc., when I can cede to it and feel no further repercussions. If this be the case, I start to worry that maybe I'm developing more unhealthy character traits, that of the sociopath. Why care? Opinion weathered down to a fine pencil-sharpened nib, jabbed into the arm, only just breaking the flesh, but enough for me to watch the lead speck travel through my blood stream... Down the arm and up, tracing it's way towards my heart, and instant doom.
Hahaa, of course that's stupid!
For a start, there'd be no instant about it, if a pocket of lead in the blood stream pumped into your heart, chances are you'd have a proper fit and convulsion first, a mini heart attack and die. Until you remembered that they don't make pencils out of lead any more, it's carbon, and that such a small stabbed amount would do no great harm; and then remembered that no one was stabbing it into you in the first place. Panic, hysteria, wild speculation and guffery.
Which brings me, in no way neatly, onto the subject of politics.
The first thing you should NEVER do is tell someone that voting is a pile of bollocks, and that your opinion/vote makes no difference in general.
I would have said voting_ "makes no difference to the Status Quo"_ but even the capitalisation of the S and the Q make it look haggard. Rick Parfitt don't give a fuck. And 'Capitalisation of the Status Quo' is a gag for something highbrow. Lost on me though.
But, I Digress.
So, I mention voting being a waste of time, and am swiftly reminded that people died for my right to vote. God bless every one of those poor, sorry, bastards. Patriots, teens, fools and all, sent off to die for something they didn't understand. And in the days before the tabloids existed, before they were even force-fed shit through the eyes as we are by the tabs how to feel. Crazy. They had an agenda, an M.O., belief. This is yours, this is mine. Simple times. And now?
Katy Price is dating Russell Brand. Lady Gaga might have been a bloke. The non-celebrity on Celebrity Big Brother won Celebrity Big Brother. A boorish overpaid football celebrity shagged the promiscuous girlfriend of another boorish overpaid football celebrity. And the national heart bleeds. Lap it up, fools, while we teeter on the precipice of doom! Take your medicine, while fuel resources drain, carbon emissions threaten to suffocate us all, and 'er off Eastenders just 'ad an abortion!
Danny Dyer caused minor outrage (only minor, in this day and age) by advising a reader of Nuts (or Zoo, whatever) magazine to cut his ex-lovers face when she jilted him, in the agony aunt section. Agony indeed, and pwopah nawtee!
These are the cutting issues, the soup of the day, but fuck me if I mention not voting. Worse than Dyer, Terry, Price,and the ilk! Imagine! I just wish I took the opportunity when I had the chance; to drown that bag of kittens in the river in front of the primary school while happy-slapping Santa, raping the Easter Bunny and just generally threatening Gandhi. Not vote? How very DARE YOU!
So, after hearing of the strife that noble men, but mainly boys took, to sacrifice everything for a selfish bastard like me to get to the point of being able to vote, I figured I may as well.
The polling card in my hand, [carefully drilled into my mind to not make any mark on the card other than it, the vote, the X], I realise the name of every mo'fo who's been whoring themselves for the vote on telly aren't even on the card! Brown, Clegg, and Cameron, nowhere! Bastard bullshit! Who am I voting for? Turns out it was those three frumpy granny-ladies out front of the polling station, the low rent, geriatric bouncers. AAAAAGGGHHHHHhhhhhh! Who the fuck did I vote for?
So I voted. I won't say who for, who cares?
When I get home, the whole 'Hung Parliament' thing is explained a bit better, and makes less sense the more sense is spoken. And even worse, the kicker, is when I find out that the popular vote doesn't count anyways, due to proportional representation. Or something.
The only thing I can garner from this is that every vote counts, but it really depends on where you live as to how far it makes a difference. Live in a county of opposition-minded folk, you've no chance. Live in a swing state baby! Live somwhere where the margin is narrow!
The vote comes in, and it's the same three major faces/faeces who asked for the vote, who I apparently wasn't even voting for in the first place, reacting in much the same way I expected before I got off my ass anyways... Clegg was disappointed the Libs didn't do better, Cameron was not winning but taking the toff majority (hankering for the allegiance of the most lefty-leaning party, just to put the middle-lefty party out of it), and Brown just kinda sat there, not really wanting to move out of his rent-free flat he'd shacked up in. I'd be the same though, why give up your gaff, when everyone knows it takes ages to get the blu-tac marks off the wall from your Spiderman and Evil Dead posters? And lose your deposit? Explaining it to the landlady? Fuck that.
The evening the results came in, when we had three channels of engrossing Election gubbins on the telebox, and after everything I had been drip-fed so far, I was literally enthused about the cob-web in the corner of the room. Bob the spider, ho-ho! What a character! I finally understood what football-haters hated about football, especially in World Cup year.
But the essential thing for me to remember, is that whichever party wins it, the song will always remain the same, here. I'll get paid the same, taxed all the same (percentages count for shit when you earn small margins). As someone said, the only guarentees in life are death and taxes. Taxes will always be. If you have an issue with foreigners (tekkin' arr' jahbs) then be it on you. We're all in for a rough ride. Labour may well have been at the helm for the fiscal disaster, but I don't think think any of the other Party's would have done different. Blame the bankers. Which is cockney ryhming slang for a wanker anyway.
Every vote counts. Each and every one. But it depends on where you live. If you want to vote, and make a difference, move somewhere divisive. Don't bother your hole in a massive majority county.
And remember those who fought and died to let me get away with such flippancy.
