Scribbler on the spot

8:36am Tuesday 6th May 2008

A rather uninspiring day all round, was The Scribbler's view of the local elections. Largely, of course, because he spent the time shuttling between the various election counts, trying to drum up something for a "sketch" type article while the rest of the reporters did the real work of noting who had won, who had lost and who had decided to stand for local government wearing a silly hat.

But laughs - or indeed, wry observations - were few and far between. It was all rather serious and worthy stuff, so rather than flog the poor horse while it was trying to die with dignity he repaired to the Boilermaker's Arms for a refreshing libation.

"I didn't realise this place was a polling station," said The Scribbler when he had taken delivery of a pint of Old Enraptured Ragamuffin, referring to the poster in the window.

"It isn't," said Boris the Landlord, spitting into a wine glass and polishing it with the end of his tie. "We put the sign up in the hope of enticing a few new customers in. It worked, too. We had half a dozen trade unionists wander in. They stayed until closing time. Don't think they bothered voting, in the end."

"I trust you cast your vote, Scribbler," called Doris "The Happy Medium" Thrope from the shadowy recesses of the snug.

"Didn't really have time," sniffed The Scribbler. "What with working and everything. Who did you vote for, Doris?"

"I didn't bother either," confided the clairvoyant. "I knew what the result was going to be so didn't think my vote mattered either way."

The Scribbler nodded ruefully. He had covered enough local and general elections in his time to feel justified in becoming a little bit jaded with the whole process.

"What this town needs is something to shake it up," he said. "Someone new to take on the old guard in local politics. Someone who can get things done. Someone who isn't a slave to party politics."

Boris nodded sagely. "Some of these places round here, you could stick a red or a blue rosette on a donkey and it'll get voted in." He paused reflectively. "Actually, that does happen quite a lot."

"Someone with vision is what's needed," said Doris, getting into the swing of the discussion, just as Graham the Gasman ambled into the pub. "Someone with an eye on the future but a respect of the past."

"What are we talking about?" asked Graham, accepting a pint from Boris.

"Politics," said the landlord. "About how everything's stale and we need a breath of fresh air."

"I wouldn't mind a breath of fresh air myself," puffed Daphne the Venerable Barmaid as she emerged from the cellar. "I've been humping these crates of Campari up and down all day."

"Equal rights for women!" announced Doris. "Equal rights for everybody! Um, equally!"

"But who's going to lead us into this new dawn?!" cried Graham with quite uncharacteristic melodrama. "Who will it be?"

All eyes turned to The Scribbler. He was standing on his bar stool, his eyes shining, his chest puffed out.

"This time next year," said Boris, awed. "The Scribbler for local government!"

"Vote Scribbler!" said Doris, clapping her hands together.

Your humble correspondent let out a sigh and the bright light in his eyes faded.

"Maybe not," he muttered, jumping down and taking his seat again. "Sounds like a lot of work to me."

"Another pint, Scribs?" said Boris kindly.

"I'll vote for that," said The Scribbler.

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