At long last, Britain has a date for its next election: July 4. We’ll get a new parliament, a new can of paint to splash over our problems, and if the polls are anything close to correct, a new prime minister. After much speculation and many rumors involving earlier (and later) dates, the announcement came on May 22.
Why then? Well, it had to happen sooner or later. Every British government has a use-by date, and this particular government shows signs of curdling. The use-by date (to switch metaphors; sorry) has been lumbering toward us like some drunken Tory uncle. So Rishi Sunak, our prime minister du jour couldn’t put it off forever. And May 22 was a pretty good day to stand outside 10 Downing Street and make the announcement.
Why? you ask ever so helpfully. (Thank you. You’re a wonderful audience.) Because it was raining, and what’s more British than standing in the rain and pretending you’re fine with it–in fact, you barely notice it. You don’t even bother with a raincoat.
Irrelevant photo: A nifty program on my phone tells me this is a daisybush. Mt eyes, however, tell me that in real life it’s more of a vibrant pink than a lavender. Ah, well, it’s only here for filler.
At least that strikes me as very British, but then I’m not really British, I only pretend to be when I’m near a keyboard, so correct me if I’m wrong. Assuming, of course, that you actually know something on the subject. If you’re even less British than I am, do jump in but don’t expect to be taken seriously.
And if you’re entirely British? I still can’t promise to take you seriously. Them’s the risks. The choice is yours.
But back to Mr. du Jour. He might’ve gone over the top with that no-raincoat thing. Most of the people I know in Britain wear raincoats when it rains, or at least use umbrellas. Some wear raincoats when it doesn’t rain, because the weather might change its mind and start hurling water out of the sky at any minute. It’s Americans who don’t wear raincoats. Based on a sample of people who’ve come to visit us, Americans don’t own raincoats. When it rains, they wear cars.
I think something more lies behind Sunak’s timing, though. I believe he looked out the window, saw the rain, and like some Roman senator asking a priest what the insides of a poor dead chicken said about the future, he turned to a consultant or three and asked if rain meant it was an auspicious day to call an election.
Sure, they said, since he pays their invoices. Absolutely.
So out he went, into the rain, and someone blasted the song “Things Can Only Get Better” throughout his press conference. It’s the song Labour used in its 1997 campaign.
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For the record, Mr. du Jour didn’t have to stand in the rain. He has access to dry, indoor spaces, known as rooms, where press conferences can be held. Just after his announcement, the opposition leader, Keir Starmer, held a press conference in exactly such a space, silently making the point that his party has enough sense to come in out of the rain.
Reporters have had fun with Sunak’s choices, which is probably their revenge for having had to stand in the rain with him while he struggled to be heard over the music. Even the papers you’d expect to be friendly ran headlines like “10 Drowning Street.” The hostile ones quoted members of Mr. du Jour’s own party who (usually anonymously) said things like, “I just don’t understand” the timing of the election, and, “This is madness.”
What they meant was, If we’d waited until the last possible moment, surely things could have only gotten better.
What the polls tell us
The polls, the tea leaves, and the chicken entrails all predict a wipeout for the Conservatives, but if you read them carefully they also say that people aren’t giddy about the Labour Party either. Or, presumably, anyone else, but Labour’s the biggest of the opposition parties, so let’s stay with them.
Labour’s 20 points ahead of the Conservatives (actual numbers may vary depending on polling methods and timing) but, surprisingly, it isn’t any more popular or trusted than it was in 2015, when the Conservatives won a big majority. Even fewer people think it has a good group of leaders or understands the country’s problems. Keir Starmer’s popularity is right up there–or down there–with last week’s bacon sandwich. You know the one: you wrapped it in a paper napkin and put it in the refrigerator, knowing you’d never eat it but convinced that if you waited until it was inedible you wouldn’t be wasting perfectly good food.
Okay, the polls didn’t mention the bacon sandwich, but the head of Ipsos, one of the main polling agencies, said, “Starmer’s personal ratings are the lowest Ipsos has eve rseen for an opposition leader who’s so far ahead in the overall voting intention. It is more disgust at the Tories [that’s another name for the Conservatives–you’re welcome] than delight at what Labour offer that is driving politics.”
So how’s the campaign going?
Things have indeed gotten better, at least for anyone who appreciates absurdity. Mr. du Jour made a campaign stop in Northern Ireland’s Titanic Quarter, and until social media went batshit, nobody on his staff seemed to notice that the symbolism wasn’t what they’d hoped for.
But politics isn’t made by sinking ships alone, so Mr du Jour added a new policy to the doormat of unfulfilled old promises: elect us, he said, and we’ll reinstate national service (that’s a polite term for the draft). Eighteen-year-olds will have to either serve a year in the military or find a charity willing to put up with them for a year’s worth of weekends. Or something along those lines. Details to be worked out later. Or not, since his party is unlikely to get re-elected.
It’s all pretty sketchy–he didn’t announce it until he couldn’t be expected to follow through –but the sketch has been enough to set people screaming. And by people I don’t mean people I happen to know and agree with. A former chief of the naval staff–who, to be clear, I don’t hang out with–called the plan “bonkers.” Defence needs more money, he said, and this would suck money out. A former chief of the general staff called it “electoral opportunism.” And a former Tory defence minister said, “I very much doubt whether it’s been thought through.”
That’s not unlikely. Just two days before the plan was announced, the current defence minister said the government wasn’t planning to reinstate national service in any form. It “could damage morale, recruitment and retention, and would consume professional military and naval resources.” And if that wouldn’t be enough of a deterrent, it “would be difficult to find a proper and meaningful role for” the draftees.
I’m sure if you asked him today, he’d tell you it’s a great plan.
Meanwhile, in other electoral news
Back in early May, which now seems like a lifetime ago, London was electing a mayor, and one candidate, Count Binface, got more votes than the hard right Britain First Party.
Count Binface? He’s a guy who runs for office periodically, appearing in a costume that includes a garbage bin that goes on his head. It’s worth following the link to see a picture. I’m sure his candidacy explains a lot about British politics, although I can’t figure out what, so let’s stick with fact: he more or less replaces the late, lamented Screaming Lord Sutch, of the Monster Raving Loony Party, who was a hard act to follow, having bagged the all-time best name.
The count does his best, however. On his website, he not only brags about beating Britain First, he also claims (accurately if not entirely fairly) to have gotten more votes for mayor of London than Rishi Sunak got for prime minister. The reason it’s not quite fair is that Sunak didn’t run for prime minister. That takes his vote count down to zero. One of the many quirks of the British political system is that if a party with a large enough parliamentary majority dethrones or otherwise mislays its prime minister, it can choose a new one without holding an election or in any other way consulting the electorate. All they have to do is follow their own rules to slip one into place. So our last two prime ministers, Rishi Sunak and Liz Tress, were chosen by the small number of people who voluntarily and inexplicably made themselves members of the Conservative Party.
But life in Britain isn’t all about politics
I’d call this light relief, but maybe the election’s light relief and this is the sober stuff. Your call.
In Cheshire, someone brought a closed box into an animal hospital and explained that she’d rescued a baby hedgehog from the roadside but was worried about it, because it wasn’t touching the cat food she’d set in there for it. To keep from stressing it, she hadn’t touched it when she picked it up, just scooped it into the box, and she’d barely allowed herself to peek in, but she’d seen enough to be worried: it hadn’t “moved or pooped all night.”
The veterinarians boldly opened the box and found the bobble top from a gray knit cap. It was, as described, not eating, moving, or pooping, and they were unable to revive it, but somebody involved did leak the story to the press.
Notes from the U.K. 