West Byfleet Pauper Lunatic Asylum

Marx, Engels and other socialites May 4, 2010

There’s a General Election but a few days away and not one of the main political parties has said what they intend to do about my social life.

Little do Brown, Cameron and Clegg seem aware how inadequate the bank holiday was due to cancellations nor the amount I raise for the Treasury in alcohol and tobacco revenues. I was rather expecting a peerage, not to have my name on the electoral role as ‘Marie’. The bar tab in Village East on Thursday night alone would’ve funded a new hospital wing, but there’s yet to be a phone call asking when I’ll be free to unveil the plaque at the Woking clinic. The Marie Perkins Liver wing, I suppose, but at least that thought that counts.

So what do the politicians propose to do for men of a certain age who live alone with a dance proof illuminated Union Jack coffee table and newly assembled barbecue and garden swing chair? We are not exactly an influential demographic. That’s probably why no one has pledged to do something about the lack of company over a bank holiday weekend, to stop friends getting married and settling down, women ceasing to have a grip on reality and provide funds for defence systems when they decide to slap without warning.

My mother tried to engage the dimwit assistant at the dentist about the election the other day. The girl said she didn’t get all that stuff, it was boring and she wouldn’t be voting. ‘You should vote’, my mother replied, ‘Women fought and even died for the right to vote’. ‘When was that?’ asked the girl. ‘A hundred years ago’, my mother replied. ‘Oh’ said the girl with a flicker of recognition, ‘Was that to do with Nelson Mandela?’. It’s enough to make you mix a strong Bloody Mary.

That’s one side of the spectrum. The other are the smug bastards of the social mediaocrity whose idea of political discourse is retweeting an @davefact, a photo shopped image, shared article or whatever is trending at that particular second. The ‘beauty’ of Twitter is it is here, now, immediate and its constituents move onto the next observation or point that can be condensed into 140 characters. This is the triumph not only of the soundbite as message, but soundbite as mental process.

People don’t discuss books or history anymore. In bringing like-minded people together social media is also the greatest form of deluded mass conformity masquerading as modern individuality. Thanks to the election, I’ve steered clear of anything on Twitter that considers itself vaguely political because one can be sure as hell it was posted by someone who thinks Nye Bevan is a Scandinavian trance festival or Gore Vidal a horror film about a coiffure.

A visit to Tesco the other day by mistake illustrated with whom my fate really resides with come Thursday night and that was a depressing thought. This is the vast majority of the population who certainly do not Tweet. Try explaining to some of the chaps in there that social media is for something other than a grooming device.

On several occasions I’ve caught news pieces of Gordon Brown mingling at a local Tesco, each time declaring ‘What a great store…lovely to meet you’ to anyone who would listen. The other day my sentiment wasn’t shared. It was all gelled hair, bad skin, pale flesh spilling over stained leisurewear as crates of beer are loaded with argument onto trolleys brim full of family pack crisps, Goodfellas pizza and Miley Cyrus DVDs. And I’d only gone in for post-gym Ryvita, but left as I arrived: the only person walking upright.

Britain in 2010 has many things: talent isn’t one of them. On that basis I’ll cast my vote, I won’t inflict my views or prejudices upon anyone whether on Twitter, in Tesco or over last orders at Village East. One other thing I won’t be doing, unlike a dental assistant, is confusing socialism with my social life.