As a kid I remember being traumatised if I had to sit with my parents in the living room whilst any political programme was being aired on the telly. I vividly recall Sunday afternoons being hijacked by an epically long monologue presented by the late (and great) Brian Waldron. Remember that in those days of the late 60’s and early 70’s a one TV household was the norm. Black and white with a remote control: me or my younger sister!
On the run up to the UK joining the EU on 1st January 1973 (aged nine) I do recall dipping my toe into the political arena when I picked up a free badge and a sticker. I can’t recall if this was pro or against but at that age a sticker is pretty cool whatever the heck it symbolises! To be honest I was more interested in space and finding out about the World via my one source of global intelligence: an encyclopaedia! To those of you born post 1990 this word is probably obsolete to you since you have grown up with the internet. On the contrary when I was running around in shorts and playing football with my mates using our jumpers as goal posts Googol (bastardised later into Google) was just an exceptionally large number (1 followed by 100 zeros to be precise) and Gmail was as mythical as the G-spot (many years on I still have trouble locating the latter, but that’s another story). My first encyclopaedia was an unexpected Christmas present from my wonderful parents. I had been expecting just another orange. Times were hard in the 60’s and contrary to popular folklore not everyone was high on drugs wearing a flower power smock, although my Mum did force me to wear some hideous shirts, with the balloon print being a clear example of child cruelty. For those still struggling with the concept of an encyclopaedia it is a book full of wonderment. Bright, exciting narrative, graphic pictures depicting all manner of incredible things from natural history to the arts, science, dinosaurs, how machines work, where in the world things are located and coolest topic ever in my opinion, space. For a kid everything you needed to know in one beautiful resource that you could hold, feel, and trust.
My fascination with space and latterly alien worlds was probably equally driven by my early diet of TV programmes with Star Trek being my ultimate Guru Nanak although the spheres of enlightenment collided for me in one spectacular pre-adolescent moment when I read or was at least told that The Great Wall of China could be seen from space! Blimey, was there some truth in these ancient astronaut claims? The origin of this data is somewhat cloudy since much later debate has rumbled on about the veracity of this claim. Nevertheless, my encyclopaedia rightly celebrated this marvel of human endeavour, later to become one of the new seven wonders of the World. Wherever it originated from, this open mouthed in pure awe kid believed it, and this older version still has massive respect for the child that still exists inside of this body that could do with an iron in a few places and bade farewell to my gorgeous locks some years ago.
Thirty-three years later I stood on The Great Wall of China. To the outside World I looked every bit of forty-two but inside I was aged nine again. That is one hell of a shift in time and if you want to know how I got there then you had better read my book, ‘Blue lights with a hint of green’ a warts and all exposé of my take on life in the police (forgive me for the brazen plug but that part of my life isn’t the central plank of this piece). My head positively span as I drank in the utter wonderment of physically standing on this ancient monument and straining my eyesight to take in as much as I could of this spectacle as it snaked across the hills and mountains. With a gob my size being speechless doesn’t come easy yet for a pin prick in time in far off China I was dumbstruck. Who or what, I wondered, could now see me from space too? If that experience wasn’t enough to blow my socks completely off and into orbit more was to come as I explored further the place where the paper lanterns gently swing (a toast to Level 42!). I trekked to the city of Xi’an in China’s Shaanxi province, the home of the Terracotta warriors who guard the tomb of China’s first emperor Qin Shi Huang whereupon my head just swirled like a Catherine wheel on steroids. I had never been persuaded by any religion but as I tightly gripped the brass handrails of the viewing area the magnitude of this ancient endeavour was not lost on me, and I felt a spiritualism totally engulf me. Almost a preordained time in history when my nine-year-old former self finally revealed to me that the meaning of life was more than simply a career or status: it was about discovery.
Like all young kids all I wanted to do was get down into the pit and take a close up look at the splendour and individuality of these proud and mysterious guardians of the afterlife. Adult fact is that I couldn’t. Like a cruel tugging of the carpet from underneath me as I proudly carried all of my childhood dreams in a large bucket the realisation that I could only ever be an observer from afar made me unceremoniously topple back into reality. Unless that is, I became a Chinese archaeologist. The latter would take some years of training but even I accepted that the former part of the equation was even above my lofty ambitions. Slightly dejected I eventually left the facility that resembled a huge aircraft hangar and walked towards the souvenir shop to join the queue to get my guidebook signed by one of the local farmers who had discovered the existence of the warriors in 1974 when digging a well. Having seen the waiting line overflowing into the yard outside and the sceptical part of me deciding that this chap could be any old guy I walked on towards a gallery of pictures that depicted the warriors being inspected by a plethora of world leaders including, for example, Ronald Reagan, Jacques Chirac, Kofi Annan, and Queen Elizabeth II. There was a route into the warrior pits after all! All I had to do was to become Prime Minister. This, I asserted, had the additional benefit of being able to review all the secret alien stuff that was bound to exist in some classified files that were under armed guard somewhere deep in the ground in a military bunker. So, on my return to my hotel room that very night I simply Googled how to become the Prime Minister.
The first step was to become an elected Member of Parliament (MP). This sounded pretty straight-forward so I duly expressed my desire and after a couple of rather relaxed interviews back in the UK I was informed that I had been selected for a parliamentary assessment board. So far so good I thought. Then I got an invite to meet the local MP at the Houses of Parliament in order to prepare me for the upcoming panel. Bloody hell I thought! This was getting a tad serious now and I decided to immediately devour the content of all the serious newspapers that I could lay my hands on and use my time soaking in the bath to decide on how I would deal with all manner of Prime Ministerial things such as defence, education, foreign policy and savouring the ‘Here! Here!’ as I said something absolutely brilliant in the House of Commons!
Being reasonably prepared for the obvious scrutiny of my policy on all the key national issues of the day I was somewhat surprised that the MP seemed more interested in what I had done in the police and which villains I had nicked in my hometown. Before I left, I had a pleasant cup of tea on the House of Commons balcony overlooking the Thames and was amazed to see how many faces there were milling around who I recognised as having appeared on the BBC1 programme Question Time. Then again this is where all MPs worked so that really ought not to have been that much of a surprise. I thanked the MP for his time, praised his choice of bright yellow socks and left.
Perhaps at this junction you are curious as to which colour, I represent? If so, that is not the important message of this ramble. When we cross the road, we look both left, right, and straight ahead. This is a basic safety check. When it comes to voting or reacting to a screaming headline from some of our not so wonderfully unbiased media outlets why do many forget this basic principle? All I hope is that I can prompt you to be a more considerate voter. But more of that a little later.
I romped home in the assessment and was now on the approved list which meant I could apply to become an MP. All I had to do now was breeze a local interview, convince the electorate that I was their candidate, and I was within touching distance of my goals. With absolutely no experience of government, save my time in the police, or any time spent within the party apparatus I was soon to find out that it wasn’t the walk in the park that I thought it would be. Also finding the right time to acknowledge to others that I was only in it to discover the truth about aliens and get up close and personal with the terracotta warriors never arose.
As the 2010 election beckoned the issue of MP’s expenses figured highly and many of the old guard were rightly ousted and I felt that my chances were dealt a significant boost especially since I was the only local on the existing approved list. But, alas, politics doesn’t always work like that, and I didn’t even warrant an interview. The adult exterior showed a dispassionate pose yet the kid inside of me threw a tantrum and I was done with politics. I did return to the fold some years later but not until my real-life version of the brilliant Richard Curtis screenplay, four weddings and a funeral, had played out. My version didn’t have a wedding but there were plenty of funerals.
In 2018 I was elected as a local Town Councillor. That was pretty noteworthy, and my Mum was suitably impressed yet at the same time I became aware of the sorry state that our constitution was in. With a merry band of fellow canvassers, some existing experienced Councillors and other volunteer members of the party, I was duly elected. It had been fun knocking on doors and the astonishment of someone opening one was genuinely welcome. I must admit that I had a begrudging respect for those who motivated themselves to rise from the sofa, open the door and tell me to get stuffed when they saw the colour of my rosette. There were also the Party fans who didn’t even question me on my motives and the ones that hijacked me for all manner of things political, almost all of which I couldn’t really influence as I was only standing for the Town Council. In a nutshell, I would be able to influence at this heady level of local government, the safety of parks and bus shelters. One knock did, however, encapsulate the general malaise of the local electorate. “I don’t do politics!” came the resounding statement and I wasn’t even given the opportunity to launch into my pre-prepared doorstep spiel. As I walked away, I thought of what I should have said. Funny that, how an epiphany has a time lag of a few seconds. ‘Yes, you do!’ I thought. When you sit on the loo (public drains), walk along the pavement or drive on the roads (highways), attend school or send your kids there (education), call on the emergency services (public protection), use the NHS (public health), and on and on. We all do bloody politics! The sad reality is that most of us would rather pull the curtains and watch Britain’s Got Talent than select the talent required to serve us in the most important office of all: how we live and cooperate with each other. To demonstrate this fact out of a total eligible number of voters on my ward (4,638) only 30% were even encouraged to put a cross in the box. Of that sum only 776 voted for me. In other words, a sliver under 17%. Bloody hell the performing dogs on BGT get more! The following year I was successfully elected as Borough Councillor with a greater responsibility for representing residents on a raft of essential local governance, including planning, adult social care, education, regeneration, and community safety. With these heavy hitters one would have expected a greater voter turnout. It was 3% less. Hand on heart I cannot recall an instance when I was really interrogated on my individual pedigree. Of the limited doors that were opened I do, however, recall some of the funnier and more bizarre moments.
The door was enthusiastically opened by a young lad, around ten years of age, proudly wearing a Chelsea shirt. “Is your Mum or Dad in?” I said. “Muuummm!” he bellowed up the hallway. A rather sheepish lady appeared and made an excuse. Before I left, I said to the youngster, “I bet you can’t guess who I support?” The list of Premiership London teams was trotted out to be met with a shake of the head on each occasion. I smiled and said, “Notts County.” He turned to Mum and simply said, “Vote for him please Mum!” I had got the sympathy vote! On another occasion I was asked by a much younger child if it was my birthday as she enthusiastically pointed at my rosette. A middle-aged chap who opened the door to bathe me head to toe in cannabis fumes proceeded to tell me that the CIA had been monitoring him for years and that he knew the exact whereabouts of the alien craft that had crashed in Roswell, New Mexico in 1947. This chap was too off the wall, literally, for me to engage further in one of my favourite subjects. As I beat a hasty retreat, I gave him my literature and thought of the Tesco line, “Every little helps!” And to conclude, I ended up at the local NHS drop-in health centre after I gouged a nasty cut in my finger as my final leaflet drop negotiated the letter box from hell which I am sure had teeth.
Although I haven’t succeeded in becoming PM, yet I am, on reflection, more than OK with this. Perhaps it is time to give up on my ambition to walk amongst the terracotta warriors and read the top-secret files on extra-terrestrials. Yet I still believe that my nine-year old self had some form of premonition. If you don’t engage with our democratic responsibility, then don’t be surprised if you end up being represented both locally and nationally by aliens. Also remember that when you first went to the Cinema as a kid you may well have watched a Disney film. Whatever it was I doubt you have always seen the same genre forevermore. That should be the same as voting. Of the seven features at the multiplex choose the one that is right for the context of your life at that time. If you have kids, it may well be another Disney. If that analogy fails, take heed of these sobering words (attributed rather dubiously to Mark Twain): “Politicians are a lot like diapers. They should be changed frequently, and for the same reasons.”
At the next election please open your door and hold those who seek power over you to account. See beyond the colour of the rosette. Better still, get involved. Attend a local council meeting and see how those who represent your vital interests perform. Why not stand for election too? You don’t have to be supremely clever or highbrow since if successful you will be supported by extremely competent officers and legal eagles. The only real qualification is to care for the place you live in and simply want better for everyone.
The ultimate power is in the cross on the ballot paper. Please don’t let the aliens take over!
© Ian Kirke 2020
Title photograph by Steve Houghton-Burnett on Unsplash