On keeping one’s word

Elections were held in England today for local councils. In the ward where I live four candidates were standing, one from each of the three traditional parties (Conservative, Labour, Liberal Democrat) and an independent. I know nothing about any of them except that the prospective Conservative councillor, a beefy young fellow, rang my doorbell the other day and introduced himself.

Given the recent antics of the Conservatives at Westminster, and especially the despicable conduct of their leader, Theresa May, they are now so universally hated that I marvelled at his bravery – or foolhardiness – in thus opening himself to the abuse of the electorate.

This in itself generated some sympathy in my breast. Like other politicians or would-be politicians, he probably persists in the pleasant self-delusion that his aim is to ‘serve’, whereas narcissism or even megalomania are bound to be at the root of his ambition. However, he is still young, and assured me that if he himself were involved in Brexit he would soon sort things out in Brussels. Feeling a bit sorry for him as I did, I subjected him only to a gentle wigging about the behaviour of his party, and such was his gratitude (and my desire to be rid of him) that I foolishly promised to give him my vote, whereupon he pathetically shook my hand.

In the succeeding days I wished I had not made this promise. Following the betrayal of those, like me, who voted to leave the EU, my inclination is never to vote again, since my vote has been definitively revealed as worthless and I have better things to do than leg it down to the village hall (which today was labelled POLLING STATION) and waste my time and the council’s pencil-lead. I considered the hypothetical situation in which the Conservative candidate discovered that I had not voted and confronted me with this breach of faith. ‘I lied,’ I would tell him. ‘Now you know how it feels to be lied to.’

I cannot bring myself to vote for a Labour candidate, since Labour has now been fully taken over by Marxist entryists (as opposed to being controlled by crypto-communists and Soviet moles, as in the past). The Liberal Democrats are just a joke, and one in poor taste, at that. I did think of voting for the independent candidate, though, as I say, I have no notion of what, if anything, she stands for. The idea there would be to deny a vote to what is known as LibLabCon, the godless cabal that takes its orders from the European Commission and pretends to run things at Westminster.

I also thought of spoiling my ballot by scrawling NONE OF THE ABOVE, or something rather more blunt, on my paper.

The final and dominating idea was the first I had entertained, which was not to vote at all.

After my tea I decided to go for a walk; and I decided on a route that takes me past the POLLING STATION. I felt guilty. Sure enough, I found myself entering and making myself known to the two clerks.

Confronted with the four choices on the ballot paper, I briefly hesitated, pencil in hand. Then, because I had said I would, I marked an X next to the Conservative’s name. He won’t be elected – the Lib Dems rule round here – and anyway my vote is a grain of sand on a beach pounded and reshaped by the mighty forces of globalism: it is a meaningless speck, only granted me as part of the cynical theatrics designed to convince the herd that we live in a democracy.

However, I had kept my word. Had I acted otherwise, I would have made myself no better than Theresa May and I, at least, still retain a shred or two of self-respect.