Rosettes, Balloons and Rousing Slogans

After several years abroad, I yearn to feast again on Britain’s beautiful places. Last week, I headed to Lincoln, a compact, cobbled cathedral town and among the most beautiful British places indeed. Needing plenty of time to enjoy the many goodies on offer (cathedral, interesting shops, antiques, cream teas, St George’s Day parade, castle, old friends, stately homes, history, home made fudge etc etc), I booked into one of the small independent hotels which Britain does so well. www.thelincolnhotel.com

During my recent forays abroad, I must confess to having lost track not only of beautiful Britain but also of what is going on in the jolly blue, red and yellow world of British politics. Neither the Middle East nor Africa are sufficiently interested in our playground squabbles to devote airtime or column inches to British parliamentary affairs. 

While overseas, I did overhear that we now enjoy the stewardship of not one but two fresh faced leaders, one blue and one yellow, and that both are old Etonians. I heard tell of fiddling and pocket lining which has (obviously) been ongoing for years and has latterly been the subject of gentle hand wringing. I was also bombarded by so many pictures of Jimmy Saville that I felt moved to pretend that I wasn’t British at all on many occasions!

How delighted was I last week when I entered said hotel in Lincoln and headed towards my cathedral view room (oooh) to find the reception area infused by a Royal Blue mist from which upper-class cadences and Crabtree and Evelyn floral scents wafted. This would be a golden opportunity to take a crash course in the updated priorities, values and objectives of the jolly old Tory party, I concluded.

My exit from the lift was hampered by a throng of blue suited persons festooned in rosettes, smiling and milling. Several clutched large sheaves of leaflets which would surely contain all the information I needed to bring myself back up to speed in no time at all.

As I approached the multitude, it became clear that I, the potential voter, was at the very underside of the Tory party priorities on that particular day. To a man, they were preoccupied with far more important matters. All talk was of photographs, lighting, film crews and forehead glare. My request for a leaflet was met with derisory disbelief. Undaunted, I battled through clusters of blue balloons and yet more rosettes to the front of the mêlée.

An enormous hoarding bearing the words ‘Securing Britain’s Future’ (or something similarly rousing) was parked outside the hotel with the aforementioned cathedral looming buttressed and beautiful behind. Someone whom I concluded must be a minor cabinet minister, both in stature and seniority, yet with not a hint of forehead glare, was posing with the cream of his rosetted cronies in front of the hoarding.

The chosen were having their photographs taken to the adoring ‘oooohs and aaaahs’ of the blue multitude. By now, the vast majority of the leaflets had been discarded on the tables in the reception. I watched the bizarre spectacle for a while before wandering unnoticed away bearing a pile of the discarded leaflets to review at my leisure.  

If indeed I had harboured any suspicion that the Tory party were equipped with whatever is required to ‘Secure Britain’s Future’ when I arrived; by the time I reached my room, any such suspicion had been well and truly sequestered.  I resolve to see what the other lot, the red ones, have to offer. While abroad I did actually hear that that they too are preoccupied at the moment. In the case of the reds, I understand the current priority is brotherly barneying rather than the blue predilection for preening and portraiture.

 

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