Post-Canvass Pint
Come in from the cold, another long day done,
Knocking on doors and pushing open garden gates,
Dodging the downpours, thankful for the sun
That briefly beats down damply on identikit estates.
The leaflets have been posted, the conversations had,
You’re safe now from the vitriol, no longer feel at risk.
Unwind and fill the others in, the good, the great, the bad,
Swap anecdotes and stories, ham and mustard flavour crisps.
A proper pub. A Christmas tree. A fireplace that simmers
Like the passion in your heart, that you hope to God is shared
By the people that you’ve met today. The light is growing dimmer
But the hope remains, and the knowledge that at least we bloody cared.
A pint of Bass. Sit back and sip. Relax and close your eyes.
Exhale, and pray today you changed at least one person’s mind.
After a brief pause, it’s back to politics folks! I mean, this is potentially the last weekend we’ll ever spend not living under a proto-dictatorship so we may as well speak out while we can. Talking of which, I’m onto my third mulled wine so I’ll be even less restrained than usual.
Today has been another day spent on the campaign trail for the Labour Party, this time in Gloucester on behalf of the great Fran Boait. Myself, Luci, Sarah and Simon managed to get a bit lost on a housing estate so new that a lot of the homes hadn’t actually been finished yet, but despite that, many positive conversations were had, and floating voters (hopefully) convinced.
It’s a difficult business, politics. In fact, it’s a difficult business giving a damn about anyone else, especially these days, and it’s sadly not uncommon on the doorstep to receive a tirade of abuse simply for daring to suggest the country could do with a bit of improvement. I’m used to it, although I’m not sure that makes it OK. One chap earlier this year told me he “wouldn’t piss on me if I was on fire”, and to be honest he was one of the nicer ones.
The point is, even on the good days (and there are some) it’s one of those special moments to put down the clipboard for the evening, unpin the rosette, and take shelter in the nearest pub to let what’s left of my hair down over a well-earned drink or two. It’s a chance to exchange details of the more eccentric respondents of the day (I see you, Hard Brexit-backing LibDem diehard) and, even better, to not talk about politics at all for a bit. Today, that involved trying to guess the running order of Now 6. I can’t remember why but I think initially it was something to do with an ethical foreign policy.
From hereon in, I think this week is going to go a bit mad, politically, but at the same time I’m hoping the poetry on this blog is going to get a bit more festive. Half because I won’t have the energy to write any long rhyming broadsides on renationalisation, and half because we put our Christmas tree up tonight, decked the living room in lights, made an absolute tsunami of mulled wine, and for the first time since restarting the Poetry Advent Calendar I’m starting to feel proper Christmassy. Just the small matter of the battle for the soul of the United Kingdom to get through first…
Feargal Sharkey? Seventeen days to go…
Owen x
The Poetry Advent Calendar 