We’re scampering over a turvy-topsy political landscape towards the election. Some of the landmarks are familiar, but in the wrong place – policies we’ve heard before being taken on by new quarters – and new landmarks are forming out of the ooze – the televised debates, looming up out of the mist like strange, shiny ships.
The Conservatives are standing for change; the Lib Dems (aka the “yellow surge”, according to Malcom Tucker) are offering us hope for a radical, glamourous new politics; and Labour are straddling an equality chasm that’s getting wide enough to split ’em at the crotch any moment.
It might be churlish, but I’m finding the chaos exciting. The idea of a hung parliament is creating a kind of carnival spirit. Add in a volcano that’s stopped play all over the world faster than a mains leak on a cricket pitch, and you have a damn fine mess that chaos-worshipping Ethan Rayne off of Buffy would be proud of (cf Band Candy, Halloween, A New Man).
I’m imagining the swingometer being wielded with a carnie (or possibly it was a game show) cry of “Round and round she goes… where she stops, nobody knows.”
All of which reminds me of my first understanding of the joy of chaos: the children’s poem, “A dog in the playground”, from Please Mrs Butler.
Here’s a version of it that you can print out and illustrate yourself: