Cameron chuckled but Sam looked a little wary
DAVID and Samantha Cameron voted soon after breakfast in the Cotswold-classic village of Spelsbury, Oxfordshire. By that time the Milibands had already been in and out, wielding their stubby pencils in picturesque Sutton, near Doncaster. Justine Miliband was in blue with a pink cardigan.
Husband Ed? In addition to the Labour-issue black suit and red tie he seemed to be wearing an extraordinarily thick application of make-up. I haven’t seen that much slap on a bloke since Dame Edna’s stage show.
In Kent, Nigel Farage proved he, too, could be an early riser, doing his civic duty long before the pubs opened in Ramsgate. Ukip leader Farage was in that point-to-point bookie’s coat he favours, a red rose in its lapel. He becomes more deliciously Harry Enfield by the day.
The Camerons had to contend with a local protest candidate who was done up as cartoon character Elmo. The Tory leader chuckled but his police heavies gave the Elmo a filthy look.
Tieless Mr Cameron scooted round his bullet-proof limo to open the door for his wife who, as on Wednesday, looked a little wary. Did she want all this fishbowl politics existence to continue – or end? Mrs Cameron wore an almost nunnish, highcollared blue dress with white belt, her rebellious tattoo just visible on her inner right heel.
Pretty place, Spelsbury. Nearby is Ditchley Park, where Churchill occasionally spent weekends during the Second World War. If Mr Cameron wanted encouragement to persevere with unpromising coalitions he only had to visit Spelsbury church, resting place of Sir Edward Henry Lee. Aged 13, Lee married a 12year-old daughter of Charles II. Their union lasted 40 years and bore 18 children.
To see the Queen’s subjects – even party leaders – enter and leave a polling station, one may be struck by the quasi-sacramental nature of voting; did they not resemble congregants approaching the altar for communion before returning to their pews with that flush of fulfillment seen at church?
For all the gerrymandered constituency boundaries (the unreported scandal of this election) and the flaws of first-past-the-post, the polling station is democracy’s altar. We approach it as equals.
That precious value of the ballot was caught pretty well by an unusual London theatre production starring Dame Judi Dench.
BROADCAST on television last night, I caught James Graham’s ‘ The Vote’ at the Donmar Warehouse theatre on Wednesday night. Dame Judi and her daughter Finty Williams played a mother-and- daughter duo who had left it until almost 10pm to cast their votes.
Set in an imaginary polling station in a London marginal seat, the show conveyed not only a sense of pride in these often shabby British polling stations ( which yesterday i ncluded a windmill near Brighton, a laundrette in Oxford and a pub in Cumbria) but also some of the things that could go wrong. Costarring the artful Mark Gatiss as the polling station’s presiding officer, its plot included attempts by local officials to interfere (albeit with good intentions) in the election process.
Should a drunk be allowed to vote? Should people have a say if they cannot speak English? Should abstainers be coerced into voting? Do parents have a right to tell their offspring which party to support?
Comedienne Catherine Tate played a polling- station clerk caught in a vortex of farce as she tried to rectify an apparent mistake in the voting.
At times the show was all a bit earnest, taking a ‘Janet and John’ children’s- storybook approach t o explaining t he el ection process, but fine cameos from the likes of Timothy West, Paul Chahidi, Bill Paterson and Gerard Horan made t hi s production a memorable election-week special.
As someone tried to stop Dame Judi’s character casting her vote as Big Ben’s chimes sounded 10pm, she threatened the man with a most unDame-ish ‘ if I don’t put this in the ballot box I’m shoving it somewhere else!’ Dame Judi!