I refuse to be silenced

Inspired by a missive sent by the Conservative candidate, Mark Reed, and addressed to me, I decided to vote. The letter, purporting to be handwritten, began by thanking me for agreeing to vote for him. Well, I thought, that must have been one hell of a drunken night, I don't even remember meeting him. What else had I agreed to? And had I retained enough impartiality in my inebriated state to do it with all three candidates (possibly at the same time)?

I can only assume that, whatever occurred, Mark Reed gave the most impressive performance of the night. Or why would I have agreed to vote for him?

Voting took place in the Bardswell Social Club, an institution I wasn't previously aware of, but which was remarkably easy to find (I'd like to thank a large sign saying 'Bardswell Social Club' for its invaluable help in this respect.) Outside, LibDems lounged, taking numbers; inside it was dim and peaceful, with many dark wooden tables set with tablemats and cutlery for ghostly diners from (as the decor suggested) the 1970's. All very cosy, and quite deserted apart from the two guys at the desk. I felt that I was participating in some quaint and essentially meaningless tradition: 'democracy'.

I placed my cross... next to the LibDem candidate. Fuck you, Mark Reed! Well yes, I probably shouldn't have written that next to the Conservative candidate's name. And as for the sketch of his deformed genitalia, that was both unnecessary and almost certainly inaccurate. But that's freedom of speech for you. It's not always pleasant, but what's the alternative?

The other day I heard a woman say: 'That Pol Pot's got a lovely voice.' Of course really she'd said: 'Paul Potts'. Still, it got me thinking.

Fruitlessly.