Oh no, not again!

OK I know it’s every five years, but somehow it seems much shorter

I’m referring to general elections of course… what else? What brought the perception home to me was a brief conversation I had with my hairdresser the other day. Musing on the upcoming vote, as he trimmed my disappearing few strands of hair, he said: “Why does five years between elections seem such a short time, when four years between World Cups seems like an age?” Good point.

As a kid I came from a divided home, politically, but my parents never ever rowed over politics. Ma, an avowed Mintoffian, kept her views to herself, as did Pa, a dyed-in-the-wool PN supporter. The only political disagreements in our house came, not from parental disagreements, but via the TV in debates in what, I as a child, used to call: “People shouting all at the same time” programmes. These days we can happily avoid all that nonsense with the wide range and quantity of foreign TV channels available.

But election time is much more than futile TV shoutathons: it means stuff like having to drive half way around the island because a roadblock has been set up to divert traffic away from a no-hope political candidate on an orange box, bellowing incandescent rubbish to two men and a dog. Not to mention those awful mass meetings. We live away from the village core, but when a mass meeting is under way, we can hear every word. Which is probably the candidate’s intention. But this time around mass meetings will not only affect those listening to the partisan rhetoric, they will almost certainly lead to an inevitable spike in Covid19 cases a few weeks later. So that’s something else to look forward to with trepidation.

Lots of people remark on the fact that the only time they ever see their MP or any politician for that matter, is just before a general election. The last time I saw anyone remotely political was indeed just prior to the 2017 rubber stamping of the – gone but unfortunately not forgotten – Joseff. And no it wasn’t the man himself who showed up at my front door one evening, it was a rather smug-looking 30-something gent in an ill-fitting brown suit.

By way of introducing himself he thrust a brochure into my hands, grinned sheepishly then said something like: “Oh er good evening Mr er… ” and I’m afraid the rest was lost in an inaudible mumble. The one phrase I did catch was something about… was I satisfied with the “brilliant” record of the current government? This was actually the first clue he had given me about his own political allegiance, but it did hand me the opportunity to respond with: “And what makes you think it’s brilliant?” He was, of course, ready for this and launched into a paean of hyperbole about the myriad triumphs of the current administration. This in turn gave me the opportunity to remind this guy – who still hadn’t identified himself – of certain caveats to his eulogising soliloquy. Stuff like Panama papers, Johnny Dalli, jobs for the boys, Laurence Cutajar, etcetera, etcetera, etcetera.

At this the poor chap did what the reporter from the late unlamented News of the World allegedly used to do when trapped in an uncompromising situation… he made an excuse and left. Roll on 2022.