OK, so we’re off. ‘Let’s go to it’. Christ if I wasn’t feeling a little demotivated before I got going on this election, after having GB stand outside Number 10 sounding like he’s misquoting Reservoir Dogs I am now. It was like a vicar trying to be cool with a sermon on why Jesus is like an iPhone. ‘Yes, I’m with him, Mr Brown, the one who gets wasted before the titles are even finished.’
Still not entirely sure how I ended up here in ___, first time Labour candidate in a traditional Labour seat that should be more watertight than Baroness T’s incontinence knickers, but now looks shakier than old Prescott’s grasp of English syntax. To be honest I think I’m here because there was a mix-up with the names, but after it was announced they didn’t want anymore fuss after the current MP may, or may not, have attempted to claim refurbishment of an S&M dungeon in his second home on parliamentary expenses. Seems to be mainly rumour, or everybody’s too embarrassed to say how they know about it, but it’s a shame he decided not to stand again. A masochist would’ve loved this campaign.
Still if the local party chairman can put a brave face on it, so can I. Same can’t be said for the campaign manager they appointed for me, Les, whose face looks less brave, and more a canvas of swirling rage, resentment and frustration at the muppet he’s driving around - all barely contained under a mouth kept shut only under the weight of an enormous ‘tache. An ex-army NCO, I think he sees me as one of those incompetent posh-boy officer types, which is unfair, as I wasn’t even offered a position of responsibility in the Cubs. Must try and find a way of dropping in I went to an inner-city comp, and remember to check under my desk for grenades in case he’s planning a fragging.
Anyway, battling on. I thought I’d try and make up for some of the less than glowing opinions of me that are circulating, by getting proactive and independently arranging a constituency-wide mailing of A4 posters with that picture of me looking thoughtful yet masterful while talking to an old lady with her grandchild on the High Street. She was asking for directions to the bookies. ‘Vote ___, the new face of Labour on 7 May’. Figured that would show everyone I can be proactive and show leadership – that there’s more than one person who can crack the whip around here.
Back of the car of the way to campaign HQ, get a call from a rather grumpy man, saying he hopes I’m bloody not planning on having any voting in the community centre on the 7th as it’s booked for his son’s Bar Mitzvah celebrations.
There may have been a typo on the 70,000 posters I’ve just had paperboys delivering. In the driver’s seat I can see Les’s neck muscles spasming alarmingly. Major gaffe on day one, and it’s barely lunchtime. Which reminds me, I’m starving. I tap the back of Les’s seat. ‘There’s the pub’, I tell him, ‘Let’s go to it.’
Campaign diary of an accidental candidate. 'Let’s go to it'
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OK, so we’re off. ‘Let’s go to it’. Christ if I wasn’t feeling a little demotivated before I got going on this election, after having GB stand outside Number 10 sounding like he’s misquoting Reservoir Dogs I am now. It was like a vicar trying to be cool with a sermon on why Jesus is like an iPhone. ‘Yes, I’m with him, Mr Brown, the one who gets wasted before the titles are even finished.’Posted 3 years ago #
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