Ah, how we love this time of the year!

Over the next seven weeks, super spring will gently slide into sizzling summer, the blossom flurrying around us all prettily, the trees filling out with lush, green leaves, flowers blooming into food courts for bees.

Well you can forget all that. We will now spend the next seven weeks trying to avoid our news feeds that will be rammed AGAIN with political gaming AGAIN played by rules we don’t fully understand AGAIN and can’t really be arsed with AGAIN.

That pretty blossom will seem suddenly panicky, whirling out of control on the tumultuous breeze, like Corbyn on the election trail. Those fattening trees will seem grotesque, ballooning with power like our PM playing her greedy game of skullduggery. And the flowers? We won’t even notice them, like that Fallon fella, they’ll blend into the background, trying desperately not to get picked.

For the next seven weeks, we have to try to convince ourselves that one of these nature-sapping arseholes deserves to win the game of running the country.

Treeza knows she holds the winning hand which is why she’s calling it. Jezza’s cards are crap, but he’ll keep playing and betting extravagantly ever-higher sums until he folds. Fallon isn’t even at the table, he’s outside sipping sweet tea and trying not to look homosexuals in the eye.

We could protest this arseholery by not taking part in the game at all, by not voting. Or we could participate but then spoil our ballot paper or vote for a daft competitor. All these tactics will feel ace when we do it, but we know that in these times of game-warfare, a wasted vote is more dangerous than a vote for someone we find a bit icky because loads of other people plan to use their vote to make sure the game goes on with ever-harsher rules that will make us feel even more icky than voting for someone ickyish.

Geddit?

Well, in the words of Tracy Chapman, I got a plan to get us out of here…

It is simple. It is easy. It is the best way to use your vote, but also kick against the pricks.

We must ALL stand for election.

ALL of us. All 64 million citizens.

It’s easy to do and almost everyone over 21 is eligible (except crims and Lords and a few other groups).

We don’t need any policies or to decide what we think about anything (Fallon hasn’t) or to bother with campaigning and winning votes (Corbyn won’t) because on June 8th we will all rock up to our local polling station and simply vote for ourselves.

Imagine the administrative NIGHTMARE of this. Imagine the size of the ballot papers! Also, as a registered candidate we are entitled to one free mail-shot to our voters, imagine the astronomical cost of this – almost as much as May’s campaign will be!

But most marvellously, imagine the panic in Westminster when they realise we have seen their game-playing for what it is and have decided to join in not by playing along, but by becoming equal competitors.

This will lead to a ‘hung’ parliament, a description which couldn’t be more accurate considering they have weaved the rope we’ll use to hang them with.

Three minor glitches in this genius plan:

  1. Some people will still want to vote for one of the three main teams. But still, at least the votes will be split between millions of candidates resulting in the longest election night in history. If only two million of us do this, it will be enough to cock everything up for a bit.
  2.  It costs £500 to register as a candidate. They charge this in order to prevent precisely this kind of tomfoolery. Seeing how many rich celebs are currently tweeting their false-eyelashes off about this election, I’m sure they would step-up and chip in for those of us who can’t afford it. If not, let’s get hold of Princes Wills and Harry, they suddenly seem all compassionate. Failing that, let’s approach Richard Branson, he can go to the moon another day.
  3. It will still require effort. And we really can’t be arsed, can we?

I’m exhausted, aren’t you? The only game I want to play is footie in the park with youngest in these ever-lighter evenings, or sit outside with eldest into the night, star-gazing and drinking wine.

There lies my one hope. On June 8th she will have just turned 18. This will be her first election. And whilst she will likely turn up to the polling station legally drunk, I know she will have spent seven weeks trying to sift through the lies and decide where to make her mark.

Which could be next to MY NAME if I can get my arse into gear! Or Gwyneth’s if I can convince him to join in. Ooooh, I wonder who’d she’d vote for in a game of ‘choose the best parent’? (Me. Obvs).

I know that in the end, I’ll do what I always do and vote for the local candidate who has the best pre-match handshake. Or I’ll just toss a coin, like before a footie match. Or maybe I’ll streak across the polling station pitch.

Either way, as long as our politicians aren’t taking it seriously, neither should we.

Let’s have some fun with it. Who’s in?

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