The Welsh Elections – High Tech or What? (What)

There is election fever here in Wales. Or at least perhaps election slightly under the weather. Well, some people have a vague awareness that there is an election, that we do actually have what we call an Assembly, and it has something to do with Wales. Most people, although not all, do know that if they live in this fine country of fluffy white things that sometimes say baa, green ground covering and damp air covering it is called Wales.

The election is tomorrow. I had a talk with the Minister about her campaign so far: It is very high tech and glamorous. She has some people who have volunteered out of the goodness of their souls to help her. One of them called me under the mistaken impression that I was one of the aforementioned volunteers and said to meet them under a certain cherry tree. I declined as I have a cherry tree of my own, and frankly I couldn’t see how that was going to win anyone an election. She also has some bits of paper, and a sound system that involves a microphone that I had to lend her, some random wires, string, a loudhailer, a husband, and a dog (that frankly had a disinterested look upon its face).

So far, as far as I could make out, she has walked more miles than is possible in South Wales without finding yourself in Australia putting the bits of paper through more letterboxes than exist in this space-time dimension. She really knows letterboxes now. Some of these letterboxes had cherry trees near them. She has spoken to tens of millions of confused bodies that wondered about where this Wales place was. She has gotten into an argument under a cherry tree with someone who was planning to vote for her anyway and managed to persuade them out of it. The dog quite liked the cherry tree.

I have already voted. By post. In case I forgot. I suspect that a large number of people who have not taken this cunning and artful precaution will forget. Mostly because no one told them. No one has mentioned it on the TV. No one has mentioned it on the radio. No one has mentioned it from passing alien spaceships. The only clue we were given that our fine nation was about to go to the polls were these bits of paper that foot-sore messengers have battled their way past cherry trees and bored dogs in order to deliver. We probably ignored these choice diatribes as we mistook them for the usual appeals for credit-card abuse that arrive through our well-guarded letterboxes.

But never fear, tomorrow everyone will know, will leap out past their cherry trees, past their bored dogs, and make a dash for their local village hall. They will know because, trawling the streets of South Wales will be a battered red Volvo with a strangely outdated megaphone system attached to the top which will emit a strange and indecipherable noise. And pied-piper like they will be intrigued and mesmerised by this vehicle, the exhausted husband driving it, the bored dog looking out of the back window, and the ever effervescent minister who, having lost her voice through too much canvassing, will have passed the microphone over to the dog.

All I can say is – good luck Jane, and Jess, do try and tighten up your speech, I really think it is too lengthy, the one that goes ‘Vote for Jane, she gives me food, takes me for walks, pats my head and if she is elected again might do the same for you. Or not. If you are not a dog. But vote for her anyway as she does stuff for people too.’ I believe all you will have time for, before the exhausted husband drives to the nearest rest home for bewildered souls married to politicians, is ‘Vote.’ Or possibly ‘Vo’ or even more likely ‘V’. Ok, just stick to your usual vague barking noises.