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The constituency I live in has one of the smallest majorities in the country, which means that come election time all the various parties tend to descend upon it like vultures. As a voter, it's rather nice; having people who normally ignore me most of the time suddenly appear and start putting their coats into puddles for me to walk over for a few weeks every couple of years is really gratifying and I tend to make the most of my brief period of power to lord it over and belittle candidates of all parties whilst I can. Alas, thanks to the recent politial scandals, the amount of campaigning has been really rather muted in the runup to today's European Elections. We've had the Conservatives round, and I had a brief chat with Tim nice-but-LibDim on my way to work the other day, but overall it's almost like politicians don't want to be seen. It's like they're scared of something.
Funny, that.
The ones I really wanted to see - and mean really wanted - were the British National Party, the BNP. You see, I actually rather enjoy debating with white supremacists, as I have something of an advantage when doing so in that I'm plainly their target market.![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
annwfyn once described me as an 'Aryan Poster boy'. I'm tall, blond, sturdy of limb and steely of eye. In fact, I'm not only the sort of person who the BNP would like to think they represent, but I also have a suspicion that many of them would actually like to be me - possibly whilst touching themselves after lights out. The only problem with this is that I've never met a white supremacist who wasn't a complete wanker, so they've got an uphill struggle to convert me.
I'd actually been psyching myself up in the hope they'd doorstep me. I read their manifesto, which offers plenty of anti-capitalism, opposition to free trade, commitments to “use all non-destructive means to reduce income inequality”, to institute worker ownership, to favour workers’ co-operatives, to return the railways to state ownership, to nationalise the Royal National Lifeboat Institution and to withdraw from Nato. I mean; it's like someone took the 1983 Labour Party manifesto and added death camps. Talk about an open goal.
Then I read The Code of the Woosters, in which Bertie Wooster gives his famous dressing down to the unpleasant (and Moseley-inspired) fascist Spode:
"It's about time some publicly-spirited person told you where to get off. The trouble with you, Spode, is that just because you've succeeded in convincing a handful of half-wits to disfigure the London scene by going about in black shorts, you think you're someone. You hear them shouting "Hail, Spode!" and you imagine it's the voice of the people. That is where you make your bloomer. What the voice of the people is actually saying is, "Look at that frightful ass Spode swanking about in footer bags! Did you ever in your life see such a perfect perisher?" .
I even re-read the episode of Preacher in which Jesse takes on the Klan and comes out with the immortal line Why are the greatest advocates of the white race always it's worst examples?.
In short, I was ready to take on Nick Griffin and his disciples in open and free debate. As it turned out, there was only one problem - the BNP weren't fielding a candidate in my constituency. I suppose it's unsurprising as I live in south London and it's about as racially diverse as it gets. My gym is usually crammed with athletic sorts of all different races, any one of whom would undoubtedly leap at the chance to punch the average BNP member on the nose.
Anyway, I got up this morning and went off to vote before hopping on the train to Stevenage. Arriving, I was walking out of the station when I was accosted by an excitable, shortish, stout man with a bright red face. "Vote for us today!" he told me, showing me his Union Jack badge.
I was so surprised that all my carefully prepared speeches went straight out of my head and my mouth flopped open like a fish. "Why would I vote for you?" was the best I could come up with.
"We're fighting for the British!", he explained, in the tone of one who has a killer argument.
"The day I need someone like you to fight for me", I replied, "Is the day they put me on a drip."
And then I turned on my heel and walked away before he could come up with an answer. Not perfect, but not a bad start to the day.
Funny, that.
The ones I really wanted to see - and mean really wanted - were the British National Party, the BNP. You see, I actually rather enjoy debating with white supremacists, as I have something of an advantage when doing so in that I'm plainly their target market.
annwfyn once described me as an 'Aryan Poster boy'. I'm tall, blond, sturdy of limb and steely of eye. In fact, I'm not only the sort of person who the BNP would like to think they represent, but I also have a suspicion that many of them would actually like to be me - possibly whilst touching themselves after lights out. The only problem with this is that I've never met a white supremacist who wasn't a complete wanker, so they've got an uphill struggle to convert me. I'd actually been psyching myself up in the hope they'd doorstep me. I read their manifesto, which offers plenty of anti-capitalism, opposition to free trade, commitments to “use all non-destructive means to reduce income inequality”, to institute worker ownership, to favour workers’ co-operatives, to return the railways to state ownership, to nationalise the Royal National Lifeboat Institution and to withdraw from Nato. I mean; it's like someone took the 1983 Labour Party manifesto and added death camps. Talk about an open goal.
Then I read The Code of the Woosters, in which Bertie Wooster gives his famous dressing down to the unpleasant (and Moseley-inspired) fascist Spode:
"It's about time some publicly-spirited person told you where to get off. The trouble with you, Spode, is that just because you've succeeded in convincing a handful of half-wits to disfigure the London scene by going about in black shorts, you think you're someone. You hear them shouting "Hail, Spode!" and you imagine it's the voice of the people. That is where you make your bloomer. What the voice of the people is actually saying is, "Look at that frightful ass Spode swanking about in footer bags! Did you ever in your life see such a perfect perisher?" .
I even re-read the episode of Preacher in which Jesse takes on the Klan and comes out with the immortal line Why are the greatest advocates of the white race always it's worst examples?.
In short, I was ready to take on Nick Griffin and his disciples in open and free debate. As it turned out, there was only one problem - the BNP weren't fielding a candidate in my constituency. I suppose it's unsurprising as I live in south London and it's about as racially diverse as it gets. My gym is usually crammed with athletic sorts of all different races, any one of whom would undoubtedly leap at the chance to punch the average BNP member on the nose.
Anyway, I got up this morning and went off to vote before hopping on the train to Stevenage. Arriving, I was walking out of the station when I was accosted by an excitable, shortish, stout man with a bright red face. "Vote for us today!" he told me, showing me his Union Jack badge.
I was so surprised that all my carefully prepared speeches went straight out of my head and my mouth flopped open like a fish. "Why would I vote for you?" was the best I could come up with.
"We're fighting for the British!", he explained, in the tone of one who has a killer argument.
"The day I need someone like you to fight for me", I replied, "Is the day they put me on a drip."
And then I turned on my heel and walked away before he could come up with an answer. Not perfect, but not a bad start to the day.
