December

[Sweder]

Managed a creaky five miles over the downs this morning with the hounds. Blue skies, a chill wind scurrying eastwards providing ample excuse for the woolly gloves. The sticky terrain held onto yesterdays' drizzle, my early thudding footfalls producing a pleasing sucking sound. My Mizuno offroaders earned their corn this morning. Planet Rock provided the soundtrack and my thoughts turned to the current election and my unlikely part in the outcome.

The Big Verdict is finally in today.
Of course, some knew the outcome was inevitable, even when the list of candidates was somewhat longer. As the voting process eliminated each contender I felt sure I'd backed a winning horse.
But whether to actually vote?

It's one thing to watch these contests from afar, chortling at the inanity of the speeches, at the synthesised chumminess between the contestants; quite another to exercise ones right to nail ones colours to a particular mast.

What to do?
I can honestly say I've never endorsed a candidate from this particular section of society in the past, but this contest has been compelling in a way that so many before it have not. But to actually vote, to commit ones support, to such a person! This was indeed a big step.

But vote I did, conscious as I did so that many of my friends from yesteryear would be appalled to know I'd so much as taken an interest in the proceedings. All those marches in the '70's, the new wave attitude, Maggie, Maggie, Maggie - Out! Out! Out! The rallies through Trafalgar Square, Anti-Apartheid, CND, Rock Against Racism, Ben Elton’s' 'Mrs Thatch', the travesty of the Miner's strike, Thatcher the Milk Snatcher . . .

. . . yet I voted.
And I'm proud of myself for dismissing doubt, ignoring the wailed lament of the Ghosts of Demos Past.
I voted, and I voted . . .

. . . Thatcher.
There, I've said it. I voted Thatcher.
Against every instinct, every belief held fast these many years, I gave my support to The Thatch.

Carol Thatcher, Queen of the Jungle.
Habitual public pee-er, breaker of wind, scoffer of bugs and all round good egg.
A most deserving winner, a true eccentric, mad as a bucket of fish and as far removed from the monstrous spectre of her Mother as you could imagine. OK, it's only a silly game show, but it showed me how preconceptions, even first impressions, can be entirely wrong. That sometimes you really need to give people a chance, time to reveal their true selves. Hats off to you, Carol T. Enjoy your champers, and thanks for a barrel of laughs (and for beating that most annoying footballers' wife who seemed to draw support solely for managing to fall out of an aeroplane).

The real Mrs Thatch had many years to make her impression, and pretty much everyone made their minds up about her long before Geoffrey Howe and his merry men sharpened their steely knives. But you can't tar the kids with the same brush - at least not Carol. Mark appears to be the one who inherited the bloodlust for world domination - shame he didn't get the brains required to pull it off. I hope they throw away the key.

All this bubbled about merrily in my head as George Thoroughgood and the Destroyers belted out 'Move It On Over' and I circumnavigated the peak at Blackcap, returning home in around 45 minutes a good deal warmer than I left. I hope the leggings are dry in time for Thursdays thrash.