INDECISION

By Richard Banks 

Elections are not for the indecisive. For the afflicted - me included - they are a multi-choice torture equivalent to being stretched on the rack or roasted over a red hot fire. It’s bad enough when the choice is between one or the other but there are at least six of them, parties I mean, saying different things and appearing not to get on. If only it was a matter of deciding which party has the best policies – whatever they are – but it seems that should you get it wrong you’re not just guilty of voting into office a party less suited to govern but one that will wreck the economy and bring civilisation crashing to an end!

         It’s all too difficult; I shouldn’t be asked to decide. Nevertheless I will do my democratic duty and endeavour to make an informed decision. So, that’s why I’m sat in front of the TV for the first of the candidates’ debates.

         My first sensation is of relief. It seems that all I have to do is choose between a weaselly looking man who intermittently morphs into a Rottweiler or one who could be a body double for Fozzie Bear. There is a studio audience who ask questions and a lady who tells off the candidates  when they keep on talking after she has told them not to. But at the start it’s all sweetness and light, the candidates smile ingratiatingly at the audience and when one of them asks a question they call the questioner by his or her first name like he knows them and wants to be their new best friend. The audience stare back like parents meeting an unsuitable young man who wants to marry their daughter.

         The candidates are of the opinion that although they are no longer young they are, at least, suitable and attempt to convince the audience of this by telling little stories about themselves. They both have parents who were [and hopefully still are] paragons of virtue who brought up their sons to be the fine upstanding chaps they are today. The bear discloses the information that his father was a toolmaker which in less salubrious company might not be considered a recommendation. Perhaps fearing this to be a tactical error he endeavours to give the impression that his father was so unsuccessful in this endeavour that he was unable to pay the family’s telephone bill. The weasel sensing the odium of unpaid bills tells the audience that the bear man and his party want to increase everyone’s tax by thousands and thousands of pounds and make them so poor they won’t be able to pay any of their bills. The bear man at first looks thoughtful as though he hadn’t quite realised that this would be the effect of his policies but later gets really narky with the weasel who he says is making it all up.

         At this point they not only talk too much but also at the same time which really gets the goat of the lady, who nonetheless manages not to turn into one. When it calms down the weasel decides to tell everyone that he has a plan. He says this in a jubilant way reminiscent of Prince Monolulu, a racing tipster, who use to appear at the Derby each year proclaiming “I’ve gotta horse.”  Sartorially the weasel is much less colourful than Prince Monolulu and not so much fun. Indeed, no fun at all according to the bear who since their disagreement over tax is more Grizzly than Fozzie. At the end of the debate the bear walks over to the weasel and just when I think they are going to fight to the death and make all choice between them unnecessary they smile and shake hands.

         So, it’s one out of two I’m thinking, that shouldn’t be too difficult but then it is; the programme’s not over, there are four more candidates waiting to make their pitch – three dogs and a bird. This time the format’s different, they are interviewed separately which doesn’t stop them talking too long as well as answering their own questions instead of the ones they’re been asked.

         First up is a sparky Jack Russell who would much rather be having fun falling-off surf boards or riding fairground attractions than sitting in a TV studio talking serious stuff about politics. Nevertheless he smiles throughout his interrogation and just to prove he’s not barking mad explains that the cost of his policies - having less elastic budgets than those of the last two parties – will definitely put-up taxes. However, if he should be at the helm when the ship of state goes down we will all have lots of fun frolicking in the sea.

         Next on is a Dobermann Pinscher whose leader is this blokey self-made man who, when not at home, is often to be found in his ‘local’, or someone else’s local, sampling the real ales on offer. The Dobermann is a self satisfied sort of a dog who is convinced that the world would be a much better place if everyone was just like him. Global warming doesn’t exist and all that is necessary to ensure prosperity for the nation is to allow dogs like himself, and chaps like his master, to make as much money as they can with a minimum of regulation. He growls in unfriendly fashion at the next dog who is a Border Collie representing a party you can only vote for in Scotland. Quite what he’s doing south of the border on a show watched mainly by Sassenachs not even he is too sure but he submits to the experience with the indulgent good humour of a missionary in a far off land who’s been invited to take part in a bizarre, but harmless, ritual. He plays along with an easy charm that suggests there are rituals north of the border more important to his political aspirations. Long gone are the days when his ancestors crossed the border to help steal sheep and crack a few heads. Today he has come in peace and not even the appearance of a turtle-dove, who wants to sit on the seat where he is now sat, is sufficient provocation to make him growl.

         The bird, whose turn it now is, does believe in global warming. He wants to save the Earth and everything in it, even if this does include the Dobermann. He is a dainty bird, with a distinctive livery who speaks in a gentle purr. Despite the cats and humans who have made his kind an endangered species he will continue to persuade all those with ears to listen that only his party can turn down the thermostat and heal the world. True to the instincts of his party it is co-led by himself and a lady turtle-dove.

         The programme ends and I am left to ponder on everything that has been said, which has been much, and as all the animals are equally insistent that they are the best I am as undecided as before. However, there is a body of people much wiser than myself who will, I’m sure, be able to advise me so I will put off my decision until seeing them again at the next meeting of Rayleigh Writers.   

 

Copyright Richard Banks