When Cluttered Election Manifestos Fail, Crystal-Clear Memes Prevail
“Ok boomer”, the cruel taunts of the schoolchildren echo in my ears as I hurry to the bus stop. Holding back a tear, I slip on an old crisp packet as the 48 bus pulls away. I mutter a curse and relegate myself to walking home in the drizzle, the cold seeping into my bum knee (‘Your appointment with the orthopaedist at Guy’s Hospital is 17th May 2021’)
It’s two days until the General Election and I still don’t know who to vote for. My eyes are no longer shining with liberal promise and a nagging voice in my head, says I should look into private health insurance. Gone are the days I marched and bellowed lustily about stopping the war, nowadays, I’m confounded by pronouns and I wonder, are immigrations caps all that bad?
Two days ago, my boss and the tea lady got into a shouting match ending in what we suspected was fisticuffs. We haven’t seen the tea lady since. The good biscuits seemed to have followed suit. Stale Rich Tea is what we have now. Stale Rich Tea is what we deserve, some say. Some of the younger team members have started a Twitter campaign in protest.
My phone buzzes in my pocket. I ignore it. Probably an email from my landlord asking to come over and check the pipes on a Saturday night. I once came home to him rummaging in my cupboards, Twiglets and cheap plonk in hand and utterly unapologetic upon being discovered. “I’m voting for Boris — them Poles have cut into my property business,” he’s told me, on more than one occasion, oblivious to his non white skin.
My neighbour Amanda is a dyed in the wool socialist, but after the (fake) news about Jo Swinson shooting squirrels has now declared for the Liberal Democrats.
“I really hate squirrels,” she confesses. “I stabbed one myself when I was thirteen. Jo Swinson gets me”
It buzzes again. And again. I concede and frantically rummage through my Targus laptop bag, It’s wedged under my Lenovo Thinkpad. My thumb-nail catches on its edge and rips right through the middle. I yelp, and my eyes well up. Perhaps I should just walk into traffic now, I think.
Three notifications from WhatsApp. I know they’re from my mother in our family chat. Gone are the days of pet updates, and cute stories of my niece at karate practice, or a BOGOF at Tesco. It’s all about 50Mb videos, huge blocks of text with excruciating spelling errors claiming in CAPS that cancer can be cured with hot water and a squeeze of lemon juice, and threats that I don’t love God if I don’t forward this message on to seven more people.
I chew on my mangled cuticle and open the message with my uninjured hand,stopping in the street, much to the indignation of a mum with kids in tow; one in a pram. The snotty-nosed toddler looks back at me from its UppaBaby throne and sticks a couple of fingers up, a gesture learnt, I’m sure, from an older sibling or Peppa Pig.
My eyes snap back to my phone , I am overcome with delight (?), dismay (?), disgust (?). Perhaps all three. Between the video of an anaconda swallowing a child whole, and an obviously untrue message about men who are luring and drugging women with fake fragrances in car parks, is an image. An image of a man, with some text on the side.
I look up. Suddenly the sky seems bright and the spitting rain feels like kisses from heaven. I know what to do. I whisper, breaking into a run. I now know who I am.
My knee screams all the way to 65 Mare Street but I’m as light as a feather. Reaching my front door, I fumble with my keys, sail through the door and race to my room. Dripping sweat, rain, tears and snot, I grab my ailing iPad and feverishly open Instagram.
There it is. I put my fist in my mouth and choke back a sob. Posted 4 hours ago. A simple image of a genial older gentleman in a red hat with a block of text on top. I read aloud , my voice rising in pitch with each sentence.
“Polling station: come over”
“Me: I can’t, it’s cold outside”
“Polling station: Boris Johnson is going to sell off our NHS”
“Me:”
I shriek in delight, frightening my tabby cat who hisses and runs under the bed. It’s real! It’s here and it’s real.
With shaking fingers, I click the hamburger menu and go to Share to Facebook.
I change the audience to Public.
I take a deep breath
and press post.
I smile. I open up Facebook. It’s been a while since I last wrote on my page But now the words come easily:
“I’m voting for Labour on the 12th of December.”
Out of the corner of my eye, I see my polling card, bent, and with a boot print from the postie, peering from under the leaflets for a new kebab shop, and a new hair loss supplement. Sighing with relief, I clutch the card to my chest and sink down to the floor as the pings from the flurry of social media notifications sing in my ears.
