Not Here, Not Now

Somewhere near the back of beyond, where the edges are sharp and opinions are strong, a councillor stands down.  His reasons are obscure, and in any case irrelevant, because this is a tale of consequences, not causes: an election is called, an opening, a single seat in a single ward.  An electorate that last time came out in no more than its few hundreds will have the opportunity to appoint a replacement.

This time, however, the forces of darkness are emboldened.  This time, bland backwater Tories cannot presume that the limp threat of Liberal Democrats is their greatest concern; this time, slouching along the east coast from Clacton come the vexations of populist fury.  Bearing life-sized cardboard cut-outs of their bejowled and leering leader, and with the tools of Trumpian folly on their smartphones, the ugly leathered foot soldiers of ill-educated rage bear down on the quiet High Street of Maldon, apparently determined that this incidental election should be a bridgehead, a launch pad, a foothold into the kind of local politics that will surely be required if they are to ‘progress’ from ignorant and prejudiced periphery towards the solid ground of acceptability and power.

What will the good people of Maldon do?

Will they laugh and joke and enjoy the selfies?  Will they think: what harm can it do?  Will they imagine that it would be a good idea to give the mainstream parties a bit of a bloody nose?  Will they say to themselves: well, that lovely man who lives just off the High Street with the pretty wife and the baby, the one who works as an estate agent and has a nice face and racist literature, the heavy set one with the lager and the ‘oi mate’ and the authentic Essex experience etched into his belligerent face as he deports the disadvantaged and disparages the weak, him, will they say – well, he can’t be that bad, maybe we should give him a chance?

Or will they interrupt the swaggering contempt?  Will they call out the unacceptable hate? Will they look back at themselves and say: no, not here, not now.  We are not this.  We are not that.

Yes, that’s what they will do.

On a quiet and ordinary Thursday, a few dozen of the bullet-headed, the thoughtless angry, the not-just-left-behind-but-determined-to-blame-foreigners crowd, wearing their brown jackets and jack boots and raising their arms at an angle as they call ‘Ni-gel, Ni-gel, Ni-gel’ will find their way to the polling station and make their grubby marks.  But they will be comprehensively outnumbered by the several hundred decent citizens who will use the same stubby pencils to vote Green and Lib Dem and Tory and who will leave the Reform UK party with its arse handed comprehensively to it on a plate: go away, they will say.

Really.  Go away.  We do not want you here.