Thursday 6 May 2010 - Election Day

I’m reminded of a scene from The Man Who Shot Liberty Valance.

It is Election Day in Shinbone and John Qualen, playing his usual comic ‘Swede’, prepares to vote by donning his best suit. Waved off by his wife and daughter he presents himself at the polling station (the saloon) where he proudly flourishes his naturalisation documents and announces that he is an American citizen.

The scene is amusing but also moving because I too find the act of casting my vote rather special. Call it a right, a privilege or a duty, I cannot understand those who do not bother to turn out to play their small part in what we can still just about call our democracy.

Even before the rise of UKIP, when I was inclined to abstain in European Parliament elections, lest I should seem to be giving legitimacy to continental imperialism, I would take my ballot and politely but firmly spoil it.

So. Today. Who will benefit from my support? Not being tribal in my party affiliation, on what basis do I decide?

My political instincts are conservative. I hate big government, the nanny state and political correctness. I believe in the freedom of the individual and the freedom of the market.

I also would like to see a much stronger Parliament and greater independence of individual MPs. I admire maverick MPs, even Labour ones like Bob Marshall-Andrews and Alice Mahon

But the fundamental policy issue for me is opposition to membership of the European Union.

There’s a UKIP candidate standing. My decision should be easy then, shouldn’t it? Well, maybe.

What about the other local candidates?

We have a fascist parson, an embittered ex-chief executive of a hospital trust, an English Democrat (the saloon bar party) as well as the UKIP man.

They are the outsiders and I will consider only UKIP, although I know nothing of the candidate himself.

Lincoln is just about a three-way marginal. Of the three leading candidates, I eliminate the Libdem as a euro-fanatic.

Gillian Merron, Labour, and MP for 13 years, is a careerist yes-woman. There’s no way I will vote for her on any grounds, personal, partisan or political.

The Tory candidate looks to be similar to Merron, a well-fed party loyalist who has made no secret of his ambition to be in government.

So it’s still UKIP, is it? There’s no way that he will be elected, but a high number of votes nationwide might have some impact on future government policy.

Who am I kidding?

In fact, strong support for any of the minor candidates will simply make it more likely that Labour or the Libdems will take Lincoln. It’s possible that Labour’s national and Merron’s local unpopularity will, allied with the Clegg-factor, let the Libdem in.

Therefore, reluctantly but realistically, I shall vote Tory - the song, not our local singer - hoping against hope that a Conservative government will decrease interference in our daily lives and stand up to the Eurocrats.

Standing outside the pub on Friday night, staring up at a bright crescent moon with Venus twinkling directly beneath it, I realised that I’d forgotten to look out for the sunset earlier.

One of the benefits of the cloud of volcanic ash allegedly covering the country, along with a decrease in aircraft pollution and the lessons that we can get along without exotic fruits and foreign holidays, is the prospect of spectacular sunsets.

Never afraid to demonstrate my ignorance I wondered aloud to N whether the ban on flights across Europe was more panic than precaution, a decision based more on fear of blame than real danger.

‘After all,’ I said the RAF is still flying out of Waddington, ‘isn’t it.’

Apparently not. Even the AWACS is grounded.

‘But what about our protection from a sneak attack?’ I recalled the Sunday morning attack on Pearl Harbour and that surprise gift to Israel from the Arabs on Yom Kippur.

‘I don’t think there’s much danger from the Russians,’ said N. They’ve got enough troubles of their own.’

‘To hell with the Russians. I’m worried about the French.’

Saturday evening, just before 8 pm, there she was, a huge, bright, red sun, sinking beneath the roofs as I walked westward to the pub. Truly magnificent. Thank you Iceland. What we we need now is our money back and all is forgiven.

The pub was packed. It’s an ordeal that has to be endured until about 9.30 when, having ‘pre-loaded’ on cheap Wetherspoon’s lager, most customers stagger off to the city’s ‘clubs’ and other knocking-shops.

Outside on the smoking patio, the sun had set and there was the moon again, WNW I calculated, with Venus a lot further northward.

A gaggle of middle-aged women sat in a circle, cackling and honking. They seemed to have dressed in the belief that attractiveness is directly linked to the display of bare flesh. Not true when it reveals arms, according to GY, like those of Geoff Capes.

With them was a one solitary male, surrounded, as the same friend said, like Custer.

At the bar I stood next to a guy who was ordering a long list of ciders, lagers and shorts. I couldn’t be sure whether he was having trouble with the language – not unusual in Lincoln these days – or just drunk. When he started telling the barmaid how beautiful she was I decided ungallantly on the latter. Then he put his arm around me which I hope confirmed that decision. Nevertheless, I shall make a point of getting my hair cut on Monday.

It was a pretty quiet evening after that. I learned about the hallucinogenic effects of nutmeg. I wonder if, like aspirins and glue, there’s a limit on how much you can buy at a time.

A woman caught my eye. She was quite good-looking, I thought, but perhaps that was merely the lateness of the hour. Just an excuse for inaction. Why have I become so lazy?

G was outside talking to a woman, whose daughter is about to go out with the army to Afghanistan. I thought his little lecture on improvements to IED’s was somewhat tactless, but it did remind me of how the Taleban throw a party. There’s no dancing, no music and no booze, but they play a bloody exciting game of pass-the-parcel.