21: We all go to the polls

‘Now just a minute! Do you and your chums really think a group of hoorays chortling away in the back row, then raising their hands, on mass, aren’t going to be spotted?’

‘Ah, but this is the beauty of it, packing a crowd or even organising a clack is strictly out of order these days. So after a husting, in which I’m the only “one of us” who attends, all members get emailed a link to the short-listed candidates and get to vote online.’

‘Yes, but.’

‘We’ve already established by word of mouth who we want Rory to go the ten rounds with, I’m there just to make sure he’s one of the nominations.’

‘I can’t approve of any of this.’

‘Of course not, but then your credibility as a citizen concerned for the future of the planet is rapidly being undermined by your love affair with my gas-guzzler! Now, take the wheel of Jack’s mock mean-machine here, drop me at the old social club, then take it for a burn.’

‘Ok, Mr fucking wise guy, who is this person Rory is somehow going to beat?’ Charlie demanded as we accelerated away, rather too quickly.

‘An old fake who goes by the unlikely name of Rod Haagen-Dazs, or to be more precise, the one and only Roderick Haagen-Dazs, Associate Professor of Social Policy at our local university.’

‘Don’t tell me, you’re going to expose him as heir-apparent to the family ice cream fortune?’

‘Er, no. Haagen-Dazs is a made-up name, it exists only as a brand name, the real history of which is well documented and, as with so many things can be verified with a keyword and three clicks.’

‘Really?’

‘Oh yes, and hundreds of thousands, perhaps millions by now, of people around the globe know the story without even having to look it up! Problem is, Roderick when he arrived penniless in this country, long before the Web established itself as the conduit for all knowledge, did not. He changed his name quite legally. And of course the party he seeks to represent, well, no questions asked since you’re allowed to self-identify as whatever you like these days.’

‘But having an opponent with a silly name won’t be enough.’

‘Indeed, but people are going to realise he is fake in other ways too, that is officially fake. The man is the very personification of the post-modern, of the kind of relativistic thinking that believes that by giving something a new name, the language itself then somehow magically changes your reality! And what’s more he is woke, fully a woke; fully qualified to train wokers - if that’s a word?’

‘How do you know all this?’

‘Well it was the newsletter of the campaign group Inertia which first set me off on the trail…’

‘Oh, lord. Get out. Don’t tell me until it’s all over.’


As it happened I need not have worried, the wily professor, one-time sociologist, now academic policy wonk and self-proclaimed social justice warrior, was well organised, I merely went with the crowd, carried along by the arm waving, cheers and applause. Later, over bedtime hot chocolate - our earlier indulgence in cod and chips having ruled-out anything more sustaining - I did my best to explain all.

‘But, don’t you think just talking to them would have arisen suspicion, your voice?’

‘No, no; the rabble, the mob - they’re all middle class, metropolitan types these days, they all have social science degrees, I just have to remember my modern history from university, and I blend in.’

‘How come?’

‘Well most of the history dons still talked in the language of Marx and the sixties New Left even then, I’d forgotten most of it, but then this revival of the old Left a few years ago brought it all back.’

‘I don’t get any of that, but okay, you can talk their language. What now?’

‘You said you didn’t want to know.’

‘Oh, yeah, I forgot.’


I had a hunch and over the next few days I played it. First I contrived to bump into Prudence, then a while later Rory. My advice? Simple, always refer to your opponent as Professor, then I sat back to enjoy the show, giving Charlie ample evidence I was indeed coming to heal and staying out of it. I was staking all on good old English snobbery.

Now Rory, in all his innocence, used the word professor in the traditional English sense of the word, how could he not, with a little but not too much, deference appropriate for someone with a long-established reputation based on published research in their particular area of expertise, recognised at least nationally, if not internationally, someone rewarded by their university with tenure. It was Rory’s audience or the interviewer who would question why on earth, an opponent should be so respectful, since the idea of an 'associate professor' - another regrettable American import - was something altogether, different. The impression left with the voter, was that Rory was simply behaving as a gentleman would and ignoring the man’s diminutive status.

We watched together the one bit of live tv Rory couldn’t get out of, a hastily arranged head to head debate, chaired by regional tv’s recently appointed ‘political editor’, more familiar to viewers as the chap who used to present the five minute evening bulletin on Saturdays - invariably a quickly contrived analysis of the situation in the lower half of the Football League’s Division Three. Charlie remarked; ‘I’m beginning to get this now, I could never work out the difference between a senior lecturer, a reader or fellow or whatever, but it always mattered to them. I know in America anybody who stands up in front of a class gets called a professor!’

‘Quite. The post-doc, the assistant this, the associate that.’ The double strength, triple-sized ice cream tub standing for the Left, peppered every sentence with appropriate, inclusive, diverse and politically correct language to describe, the issues and concerns he had which he implied were surely shared by all. Rory’s replies were vague and indecisive, ‘I’m sure there’s a lot to be said for both sides’, and in any other context would have sounded weak. However, polite tolerance of gobbledegook was what the viewer saw. As the debate continued the Professor took a few swipes at Rory’s supposed privileged background, describing a socialist new dawn in which such a lifestyle would not be tolerated, then made the mistake of asserting there should be positive discrimination in favour of certain of the newer more inclusive universities over the older more traditional ones. It was then, just as the programme was drawing to a close, that Rory momentarily lost his cool; ‘I say old chap, I’ll self-identify as I damn well please, you can stick your academic’s version of grade inflation up your own old polytechnic!’

At which point the audience fell about with laughter, but not at him, rather with him, supposing he’d made a clever satirical joke.

Afterwards, I asked; ‘Well, what are we to make of that?’

She paused for thought. Then; ‘Rory is the kind of bloke who automatically walks when the umpire signals - out!’

‘Yes, you’re right, absolutely right, and to be a successful politician you just have to come across as likeable. Such a rare quality these days.’


‘The bowling green?’

‘Yes, it’s always the bowling green - because it’s one of the few places the council still owns, one surmises.’ I said, as we set out together to cast our ballots. It was early morning and quiet, we tried to smile equally to all the rosettes stationed at the door to the modest clubhouse.

On our way back, Charlie said; ‘I forgot to ask, why do you call Prudence, the Puritan?’

‘Well, it’s a Puritan name and she does display some of the virtues.’

‘I don’t understand, explain.’

‘Well, the Puritans invented a whole set of new Christian names by which to call themselves, in addition to naming children after people in the bible. Names like Verity and Prudence, all intended to be virtuous. But I suppose it’s more than that, she exudes the idea that what you do in this life determines your fate in the next. The Puritans took very seriously the notion of keeping your nose to the grindstone, and - according to who you read - regarded success, in terms of money earned or property acquired, as well - a measure of virtue! You can find the seeds of capitalism, not to mention the American Dream, in their endeavours if you want to.’


Being in the middle of a hung parliament, meant tv was ‘live’ at the count, but it did stretch on rather, well into the early hours - a higher turnout than expected we were told. The neat piles of ballot papers on opposing tables seemed equal in height. At last the mayor - who had graciously consented to lend his name to the recently reopened half of the old public park that the council hadn’t sold-off - read the result. Rory had won, by a little over six hundred votes. He in turn read a formal acceptance speech, with clear diction, from a couple of record cards he’d taken from his pocket, and what with the double-breasted suit, perfectly knotted tie and formal shoes, he exuded the quiet confidence of a man who never doubted he would win. The illusion was complete. Just as his opponent began to rant that Rory would be ‘burnt in effigy’ on Beacon Hill on Guy Fawkes Night, the victor could be seen walking out of shot accompanied by a couple of burly minders, presumably to be whisked away to our nation’s capital for some vital vote, since it now seemed our man held the balance of power.