Why tomorrow marks the start of a revolution
On the eve of the General Election, Joe Whitwell explores the relationship between democracy and the individual
Our democracy isn't perfect. It’s anything but. It’s so flawed that to look at it with fresh eyes seems almost farcical.
Yet farce it is not. Our democracy is the result of centuries of bitter debates, constitutional crises, civil war, lies, media manipulation, backroom deals and much more besides. The act of voting is to partake in the history of this country. It is to close your eyes and inhale the revolutions that have gone before you.
Voting is its own revolution. It is maybe the one time that the elite stay up all night in fear of the peasants' revolt. Benign though that threat may seem, every seat is up for grabs. Every MP faces unemployment. Every party faces utter electoral annihilation – this time more than ever. It won’t just be Nick Clegg getting a rough night's sleep.
And yet, the act of voting is so normal. So mundane. Bumbling into a sports centre or a school or a church. Shuffling over to the little booth. Voting UKIP. Shuffling out again and telling your northern parents that you voted Labour. Perfectly valid.
Voting SNP because, for the first time in a generation, Scotland appears to have a real voice, even if you never wanted independence in the first place. Perfectly valid. Scribbling “Fuck you” on your ballot paper because you need to express disgust at the options you have been given. Perfectly valid.
That moment of secrecy? It’s yours. It is what people have fought and died for. It may not seem much: it may seem like your party will never win. It may seem utterly, utterly pointless, but it is its own alchemy. It's a rare level playing field, no matter how silent you are. How ignored. How rejected. How ridiculed. How ostracised. How kicked down and trodden on by those around you. You have the same power as the man in the mansion, the man with the PhD, the man tweeting who is incessantly high off the vapour of his own opinions. Once you’re done, you can bumble out and return to revision, or work, or school, or the street you sleep on.
I can’t promise you the world. I cannot promise you everything you want. If anything, all I can promise is bitter, bitter disappointment, a dozen broken promises, and a thousand petty compromises. We’ll make some progress though – we always do. And then, we’ll discard the poor exhausted corpses that were once our representatives and put them out to pasture with their memoirs. And then, we’ll bumble onwards towards the next lot.
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