Written through the night in the studio of BBC Oxford from just before midnight on the 7th of May, for broadcast on the announcement of the result of the general election.
The talk of 2020 vision
becomes memetic –
my guess is that most that
utter it don’t get it,
don’t see the duality of the fixed term
borrowed from optometry,
but are focused on designs and
the names on the sides,
Brand aware but not engaged.
Ideally votes will be exchanged
for progressive policy
with economic controls,
vanquishing the threats
from the xenophobes,
for the hard-working people
who dig all the holes;
all our futures depend on the Poles(/polls).
The prediction: no one party to be
first past the post,
progressive change a realistic hope,
but…
as the ballot boxes close,
the exit polls toll.
Not 326 but as close as damn it.
The DUP could be the key
for the Eton Rifle to beat
the common enemy.
Right-wing editors rub their hands with glee,
victory for the VE anniversary.
The electorate will be given a decision,
the return of European tunnel vision.
Sunderland sprint to be first one back,
as they take out the one blue vote
and weigh the bag.
Respect for Smith in the intelligent city,
we wait and wait for the inevitable from Witney,
the privileged voice leading
vitriol and distortion,
warping the map and the blue proportion.
Sky’s the limit, they believe in better,
social media funding, Tories going meta.
One nation appears to be drifting,
the political tectonic plates are shifting,
landslide from the highlands,
Sturgeon surgin’,
too many activists cheering the SNP.
We can’t fight against it, says Dimbleby.
Swell for the Greens but no MPs,
votes for UKIP but still no seats,
except all’s well for Carswell.
Most halls fill with applause
for reds, yellows, greens, blues, and loons,
but not for followers of pint-swilling Farage;
think UKIP – think boos.
Cable cries, Clegg survives
by the skin of his teeth,
Liberal Democrats completely demolished.
Labour despair at comparisons
to Wallace and Gromit.
It couldn’t be much grimmer,
looking at five more years of despair in the Mirror.
Boris wins but loses
the chance for a leadership fight,
clowns to the left of him, jokers to the right.
We’re left to hover like gannets
for the slender hope
of the result we want to hear from Thanet,
result not yet certain
but speeches tainted with resignation.
The election narrative has been authored
by non-dom millionaire editors
who put progress to the slaughter;
the 2015 election story
was once again written by a Tory.