I am back from some more letterbox stuffing. The best house sign I read this evening was:
“The velociraptors housed behind this door have only been trained to disembowel callers wearing blue rosettes“
Despite this kind of heartening sight, the activists here are nervy. Doing my rounds, I bumped into two—both County Council candidates—and I spoke to one of the most dedicated local Labour Party members on the phone earlier today. The candidates both thought it would be close, but that Anne Campbell, Cambridge’s Labour MP these past thirteen years, would hang on to just enough of her majority of 8 000 to win—I think it will be cut to three figures. My friend on the phone was more pessimistic, but he has been talking to a lot of middle-class, Iraq-obsessed soon-to-be-LibDem voters lately, as he has trudged around the ward in which we both live. The real workers around here couldn’t care less.
It’s fair to say I don’t see eye-to-eye with Anne Campbell about many things: Iraq, tuition fees, Israel; but I do respect and admire her hugely. She is an outstandingly good MP. This, I hope, will be her salvation from Cambridge’s latest wave of drabby, gentrifying, wholemeal-trousered, pureed organic mung bean-eating Bens and Hannahs—with their recycling boxes and their baby tandems and their handwoven Nepalese “Not In Our Name” welcome mats. While they practise Pontius Pilates (a system of handwashing exercises imported from Hollywood) it’s the duty of the rest of us to elect the good guys. To paraphrase Bob Geldof: “Don’t go down the pub. Go to your polling station first and give us your fucking votes!”