The local elections, that noble democratic exercise, where we all decide who gets to ignore the bin collections for the next four years, are looming his week, a bit like a dentist's appointment that you can’t quite cancel. The air is thick with promises, most of them as substantial as a cardboard bunker.
I’ve been asked, repeatedly, whom I will vote for, as if I were some mystic oracle capable of navigating this circus of potholes and platitudes. My answer, after much thought, is as follows: good luck, dear reader, for we are all adrift in a sea of glossy leaflets and broken dreams. One might hope for something tangible, with numbers, perhaps even a sentence or two that doesn’t dissolve into jargon upon contact with reality. Instead, we are treated to a parade of candidates who seem to believe that a selfie with a traffic cone constitutes a policy on road maintenance.
The pothole, that great British institution, remains the star of the show. It’s not just a hazard to your suspension; it’s a metaphor, a gaping maw of neglect that swallows both tyres and hope. Labour, bless them, have promised to fill these craters, though one suspects their plan involves little more than a bucket of good intentions and a prayer to the weather gods. The Conservatives, meanwhile, have diverted funds from a train line that was never going to happen (HS2, we hardly knew ye) to patch up the roads, a gesture so magnanimous I nearly wept into my tea. Of course, the potholes remain, as eternal as the Queen’s corgis once were, while the metro mayors posture about building 40,000 council homes by 2030, a target so ambitious they might as well promise to colonize Mars while they’re at it.
Then there are the independents, those plucky souls who’ve fled their parties like rats from a sinking ship, only to discover the water is just as cold. They speak of radical change, of mass deportations or cultural crusades, but when pressed for detail, they produce nothing more than a furrowed brow and a vague wave at “the establishment.” It’s all terribly stirring, until you realize they’ve forgotten to mention how they’ll fix the bus routes or fund children’s care. Local councils, you see, are not the place for grandstanding about Islam or immigration - they’re where you go to argue about parking fines and the precise shade of beige for the high street benches. But why let practicality spoil a good rant?
The parties themselves are a study in futility. One might expect a policy on, say, social care, a topic that consumes two-thirds of council budgets, according to the boffins at the County Councils Network. Instead, we get a curious blend of game show and soap opera, with candidates competing to see who can look most earnest while shaking hands with a pensioner. The campaign stunts are particularly edifying: a Tory councillor in a hard hat, a Labour hopeful pretending to enjoy finger painting with schoolchildren, a Green Party candidate hugging a tree so vigorously I feared for its bark. It’s less a campaign than a pantomime, and I’m still waiting for someone to shout, “He’s behind you!” as the electorate stumbles blindly toward the ballot box.
We voters are a discerning bunch. We’ll rail against a new housing development because it blocks the view from our conservatory, but ask us about the council’s SEND support, and we’ll stare blankly, as if you’ve asked us to solve quantum physics over a cuppa. We’re not voting for a vision; we’re voting for whoever promises to fix the pothole that we had to fish our car of last night with a crane. Never mind that the council’s budget is stretched thinner than a Kardashian's skin - social care, homelessness, public transport, all teetering on the brink - but no, give us a freshly-tarmacked road and a bin collection that doesn’t resemble a lottery, and we’ll call it progress.
I could go on, but I fear I’d start sounding like a Reform candidate, all rage and no substance. The truth is, these local elections matter - they shape the mundane fabric of our lives, from the state of our pavements to the care of our elderly. Yet here we are, drowning in a sea of empty gestures, where the loudest voice wins, and the only manifesto is a promise to “fix it,” whatever “it” may be. Perhaps we deserve better. Perhaps we don’t. Either way, I’ll be voting for the candidate who at least knows where the pothole is, even if they’ve no idea how to fill it. In the currently state of British democracy, that’s as close to a plan as we’re likely to get.
As for the future, I hear whispers of new parties, new alternatives, rising from the ashes of this electoral farce. I wish them well, but I suspect they’ll be just as enamoured with their own reflection as the current lot. In the meantime, vote for someone who cares about your street, your school, your sanity. The rosette’s colour matters less than the pothole’s depth, and Labour’s grip on Westminster won’t budge until 2029, no matter how many bins go unemptied this week.
Choose wisely, or at least choose with a sense of humour … it’s the only way to survive the farce.