When it comes to elections, aren’t we all simple and gullible?
‘‘IT’S a disaster. Jim. What am I going to do?” I haven’t seen old George so distraught since Meads was ordered off at Murrayfield. And that was a few years ago now.
“I’ve blown it,” sobbed George as he gulped eagerly at a Speight’s.
Calming down, as my soothing noises and the alcohol took effect, George slumped in the armchair and unburdened himself, muttering something about “confession being good for the soul”.
Aghast at the prospect of hearing about George’s sins, I reminded him that I was not a priest and had no direct contact with the Almighty.
That seemed to cheer him up a bit.
“Hell, I know that! They’d never have a bloke like you. You were the only kid who never became an altar boy. Remember old Father O’Connor. Deaf as a post and asking people to speak up in the confessional. Wow, the things we heard while we were waiting. What about Mrs Blandworth, the bigwig organiser in the Children of Mary? Boy! The stuff she confessed to. Old Bill Blandworth must have had a hell of a life. One time . . .”
It was good to see George forgetting his own woes, but I cut him off as we all knew Daisy Blandworth was more to be pitied than censured. Nymphomania is a sad affliction and sufferers deserve our sympathy. Better to change the subject.”
“What about your problem, George. ‘‘Not a nympho, are you?”
“Not that I know of. No. It’s this bloody election. I’ve made a mess of it. I was ready to do everything right. ‘Go hard and go early,’ Jacinda said, so I was first in and I went hard. Almost broke the tip off the pencil.”
I explained that Jacinda probably had something else in mind but assured him that it sounded as if he’d done the right thing.
“No. No. I did the wrong thing.” Another gulp or two of the restorative and then, “Y’see, on the third of October I was absolutely sure I knew who I wanted to vote for, so I ticked all the right boxes and left. Feeling pretty pleased with myself, I can tell you. But that was well over a week ago, and I’ve changed my mind. Winston’s right, y’know. He told us to wait till election day. ‘There are clangers being dropped every day,’ were his very words. Well, in the last week, the pollies have been ramping it up and announcing new policies, pretty well made up as they go along.”
I needed to know more, and George obliged.
“Well, I’m having to change my mind every five minutes. Have you seen Jacinda and Crusher having a go at each other?”
I reminded George that I haven’t watched television since they went to colour and that from what I’d read these debates were being treated as some kind of boxing match with points being awarded and winners declared. It all sounds very distasteful.
“Yeah. Exactly. It’s better than old wrestling programmes. You know, where the Masked Mammoth downs the Nazi Monster and jumps up and down on his stomach. Great stuff!”
“Really, I can’t imagine Jacinda doing stomach stomping. Mind you, the rumour is she’s tried a few things in her time.”
“Don’t be an idiot. There was no stomach stomping, at least in the debates I saw, but they keep releasing new stuff and that’s what’s changed my mind. I need to vote again!”
I explained that voting more than once was illegal, so George tried another angle.
“Maybe my vote could be cancelled. Not be counted.”
“Well, George, that might happen if your vote gets classed as informal. You know, if it’s defaced or maybe you’d written an obscenity on it.”
“Didn’t realise that was required. Actually, there’s a few obscenities which would have gone well next to some of those names. Still, no good being wise after the event, I suppose. Hey, how about you vote for the party I want to support now? It won’t be the one you planned on, but then you probably support some hopeless weird minority party. I know you take nothing seriously, so all good, eh?”
I dismissed his wild suggestion and told him that on election day I will calmly wait until late in the afternoon when all the policies and bribes have been analysed. Then, with personal pencil in hand and keeping to the prescribed social distancing, I will visit the polling booth. After a polite thank you to the hardworking booth staff I will calmly enter the confessional and inscribe a naughty word on each of the various forms.
“Great stuff. So, you’re taking it all seriously after all!”
George, as you may have gathered, is a simple man, and gullible. But then, when it comes to elections, aren’t we all?