by Bill Whiting
“Balls,” King said, “you can’t do anything you like, but they can’t stop you from thinking what you like.”
“Don’t be so sure,” Miller said. “A couple of months ago, there was a well-known company chairman, who made a politically incorrect joke at a private function. Nothing much, as it happens. But anyway, it was leaked to the press and he was forced to resign. They said it was offensive and unacceptable. But the point is that no-one at the private function was offended at all, and the guy knew they wouldn’t be. But he was fired anyway, because it was said the joke demonstrated what was in his mind, what he thought.”
“So what are you so upset about?” King asked.
“If ever they invent a mind-reading machine, the thought police will find a good reason to use it,” Miller explained. “They’ll probably start with something semi-innocent – say, scanning brains to ensure paedophiles are kept out of jobs involving children. Then they’ll move on to make sure government officials and big company bosses don’t have any undesirable attitudes. I tell you, a new tyranny is coming. Only this won’t be the tyranny of the evil, it’ll be the tyranny of the holier than thou.”
“Well, it isn’t here yet,” King said. “And what’s your beef, anyway? I don’t care if they scan my brain; but you must have a lot of muck in yours, and that’s why you’re scared.”
“It just irritates me for some reason,” Miller said. “So I just thought I’d have my own little private joke and run for election on a completely opinion-free ticket.”
“Okay,” King said, “so let’s get practical for a bit. Your campaign is amateurish. You haven’t got a proper plan. The way you’re going, you’ll wind up getting a lot of votes. We need to be professional about this, and I’m the man who can make the all-important difference between you being a successful failure and a failed success.”
“So where do we start?” Miller asked.
“We should try to raise campaign funds from all the people and organisations who hate you and your policy to do nothing about anything. They won’t actually give us any money, but they’ll want to tell the world they rejected us and why: and that means free publicity. Also, this air of passive uselessness you’re giving off isn’t enough. You need to be more pro actively unattractive and unpleasant. You must grab every opportunity to be unpopular.”
King was right. Over the coming days, dozens of worthy organisations let it be known that they would not support Miller with funds, but supported his aim not to be elected. The only assistance they would give him was public condemnation. Some said that there was more at stake than simply ensuring Miller was not elected: they also wished to be disassociated from his disassociation with their organisations’ aims.
The response of a local women’s rights group to Miller’s appeal for funding was: “We cannot give funds to a man who will not raise a finger to stop the abuse of women. We wish him success in getting no votes, but frankly, we would not shed a tear if he died before the election.”
A particularly worthwhile news sound-bite was delivered in the town centre, after King advised Miller to display a repugnance for babies. He was captured on camera recoiling from a young ‘babe-in-arms’ mother, and saying, “Yuk! I hate the smell of shitty babies.”
King also organised what he described as ‘essential visits’ to heartstring-pulling venues, such as hospitals, schools and care homes for the elderly. He was particularly pleased to hear a nurse tell a reporter that she had found Miller to be unbelievably ignorant of the needs of the NHS. “He told me hospitals were unpleasant, scary places, but he does like to see women in uniforms,” she said.
And King was also mindful to organise good picture opportunities. Miller was captured smoking whilst visiting a school, picking his nose and scratching his bum in a meat-pie factory, and looking very happy watching piglets troop into a butcher’s yard. He also successfully presented an image of accident-prone incompetence during a photo call arranged to unveil his latest ‘Don’t Vote for Me’ poster. Miller executed a very clumsy fall before speaking. And he was then heard to fart loudly, thanks to a whoopee cushion placed usefully in his pocket by King.
All told, a week after King had arrived, Miller was well pleased that his old chum had joined him.
“I must admit,” Miller told King, “I don’t think I could have organised such a terrible campaign on my own.”
“No, to be fair,” King replied, “you are just perfect material to denigrate. You are the porcelain dog which can’t keep watch at night, and the earthenware cockerel which cannot crow at dawn.”
“Still into the Chinese crap then,” Miller commented, “but anyway, it’s been a damn good bad campaigning week.”
But the next morning, with the arrival of the Post & Chronicle, bad news arrived in a torrent.
TWENTY-ONE
Under the heading ‘Election Poll Shock’, the newspaper reported a major blow to Miller’s campaign. Despite the new vigour King had injected into his operation, the latest opinion poll showed that his support, far from declining, had soared from a half per cent to twelve per cent. The only ray of good news was that a poll analyst was quoted as saying, “This could well prove to be a temporary anomaly.”
Miller’s unwanted support had come largely from people who normally register their intentions as ‘don’t know’ or ‘undecided’. “It may be that having a party campaigning for no votes has confused some people,” the analyst said.
“Don’t worry,” King told Miller. “It’s probably just a blip.”
“A twenty-fold increase in support is a pretty big blip,” Miller said, “but we mustn’t panic yet. We must stay focused and make sure we succeed in failing.”
“Right,” King said, while scanning the paper, “actually, it says here that our problem is mostly in the younger age bracket. For some reason they seem to want to vote for you. On the other hand, we seem to have secured a very high level of non-support among the over-sixties. The oldies really hate you. I think we need to break the problem down a bit.”
“Yeah, we need a segmented marketing approach,” Miller said. “We’ve been far too broad brush in trying to piss people off. You can’t fool all of the people all of the time. We need to be more specific with our targeting. Let’s scrap everything and regroup; it shouldn’t take long.”
It was not, however, as easy as Miller expected. Together with King, he spent nine hours drawing up a revised plan and, as a result, that evening Miller arrived somewhat breathless, and a little late, for a scheduled interview on the local radio. It was fortuitous that the programme had a relaxed format and was largely music-based and aimed at the younger audience.
Jenny Wilson, the programme’s youthful and very perky presenter, introduced Miller.
“And now here in the studio, we have Jamie Miller from the very strange-sounding Don’t Vote for Me party. Mr Miller, you seem to have created a bit of a surprise in the latest opinion poll. You’ve gone from virtually nowhere to twelve per cent.”
“Yes, Jenny,” Miller said, “it’s disappointing, but I think it’s all because the election coverage has been much more about presentation than substance. My policy to do absolutely nothing about anything is still fundamentally sound in my view, but I need to be more effective and aggressive in getting our message across, if I’m going to turn off enough people in time.”
“Are you still going for no votes at all?” Wilson asked.
“That’s my ambition,” Miller said, “but I have to be realistic. I’d be happy if, say, just a few dozen cranks voted for me. And of course, I may get a few votes by mistake from people with low IQs. Actually, I’m pleased to say my non-support among the older generation is holding up well; but, even so, I can’t always rely on geriatrics to fill in their ballot papers properly.”
“Where do you think this popularity problem is coming from then?” Wilson asked.
“Well, young peop
le like you are part of the problem,” Miller explained. “It’s not easy to get even the simplest of messages over to young people, who tend to have a lower attention span than the average housefly. And it’s hard to find just the right words to explain things to a generation suffering from severe vocabulary poverty.”
“You’re being a bit wild and loose with the insults, aren’t you?” Wilson responded sharply.
“Maybe,” Miller answered, “maggot would have been more precise than housefly.”
“What do you mean, maggot?” she asked.
“It’s a noun, Jenny,” Miller responded. “It means wormlike and limbless larva of the common house – or blowfly.”
“I know that, of course!” she shot back.
“Ah, I see,” Miller said. “Sorry, Jenny, you just wanted me to explain it to your listeners.”
“Rubbish,” she said. “You’re just being deliberately obnoxious to try and get people not to vote for you. I know your game.”
“Well, I don’t mind my views being contested,” Miller said, “but I don’t think you have any reason to question my integrity. My dislike for the younger generation is long-standing and sincerely held.”
“Okay, I think we’d better end it there,” she said. “Thank you… I think.”
Miller left, pleased that the really bad interview was so good.
Later that morning, three statements were issued to the media. The first stated that Miller would do absolutely nothing to stop any immigration to the UK, including that of criminals. The second said Miller, if elected, would not vote for the special removal of value added tax on tickets sold at charity fund-raising concerts organised by popular music celebrities.
But the third statement, proved to be the most dramatic and far-reaching in terms of media coverage. It said that no extra support would be given for the maintenance of the memorial to Princess Diana, or to support the royal family. “They already live in the biggest council house in Britain,” it said, “and it’s understood they have well-paid professional male and female bum wipers in the Palace toilets.”
The campaign was boosted further that afternoon when, after days of heavy rain, Miller went to a waterlogged street and, asked if he would do anything to help stop flooding, he said, laughingly, “No, but Noah might.”
A TV reporter there asked him, “Isn’t this just shameful opportunism? Aren’t you just cashing in on these people’s misfortune in a cynical attempt to drive your own popularity down?”
“Nonsense,” Miller answered. “I’ve been absolutely consistent in my promises to do nothing about people’s problems. But I thought it’s possible that some people down here might think that I do care about them; so I felt it was only right and proper to come down and let them know face-to-face that I don’t.”
And the high level of favourably unfavourable coverage this produced, added extra gloss to what proved to be a very productive day for Miller’s revitalised campaign – especially after his trump card was played that evening.
Almost four thousand people turned up at the local football stadium to see the most famous and celebrated person ever to be born and bred in Cosworth: Rachel Honeybun. Rachel had flown in by private jet, in answer to a plea from King. He had explained Miller’s situation and told her the flagging campaign needed ‘celebrity impact’.
Not one to forget her friends, Rachel travelled over six thousand miles to condemn Miller. She was applauded time and again, as she read the speech which King had crafted.
“I love you all,” Rachel shouted to the audience.
“We love you!” they shouted back.
“And if you love me,” she shouted, “you will not vote for that slimy vile rat, Jamie Miller, will you?”
“No!” the crowd responded.
“Are you ready to reject the rotten swine?” Rachel screamed.
“Yeeaah!” the crowd called back.
“Who’s the scum of the earth?” she cried.
“Miller!” they screamed back.
“Who won’t you vote for?” she persisted.
“Miller!” came the unified response.
“That was just superb, Rachel,” Miller told her after the event.
“After all you’ve done for me, it’s the least I could do,” Rachel said, “but why are you doing this? Isn’t it really nutty?”
“Jamie said he’s doing it because he was bored,” King explained. “I thought there must be money in it somewhere, but he says there isn’t.”
“You should see a therapist,” Rachel told Miller. “I’ve got three. Or why not try some kind of religion? The Eastern ones are best for creating inner contentment.”
“For fuck’s sake, don’t put ideas into his head,” King said. “We’ve got this thing to finish before he starts inventing a religion.”
“What a challenge, though!” Miller piped up. “You’d need some marketing campaign to take on the brand leader. What is it – Christianity? Islam? Buddhism? Hinduism?”
“Okay, that’s for another day,” King interrupted angrily. “Can we drop it now?”
“I have to get back home, anyway,” Rachel said, as her driver appeared, and the three friends formed a farewell hug.
“When’s the next poll out?” Miller asked King, late that night.
“Tomorrow afternoon, I think,” he answered, “and with a bit of luck, I reckon we should have plummeted.”
“We haven’t done that well, have we?” Miller said.
“I think it’ll be good news, and we’ve earned it,” King responded, reassuringly.
When the poll was announced, the result was even better that King had predicted. Only six per cent of those polled said they would vote for Miller, down by half. The depressing upward trend had been reversed. But scarcely had the good news arrived, than King announced a new and unexpected blow to their hopes.
“Fuck me!” King shouted, as he opened the Post & Chronicle.
“What’s up?” Miller asked.
“It’s the competition,” he answered. “The main parties. They’ve started to support us by condemning us.”
Since the campaign began, the main political parties had all ignored Miller and avoided any mention of the Don’t Vote for Me party. Even when pressed to do so in interviews, they had quickly dismissed Miller as a joke and moved on ‘to serious matters which the electorate care about’.
But they now realised that even a six per cent pro-Miller vote, in a highly marginal seat, could have a decisive effect on the final result. They had been spooked: and now they had come out with all guns blazing at Miller. The newspaper printed dozens of letters from supporters of the main candidates, and they were given prominence by Hathaway’s editorial team, which was under strict instructions to help them torpedo Miller.
“This is good news,” King told Miller.
“I know,” Miller said, “and this is just the beginning.”
All the main parties had sprung into action to inflict maximum damage on Miller. No speech, leaflet, poster or doorstep canvasser’s pitch failed to mention him in strong derogatory terms…
What has this dreadful, greedy man done for the world, apart from commit indecent assault, publish a newspaper full of lies and threaten to disfigure the moon?
And…
Our proud democratic traditions and institutions have taken many centuries to build, and our history books are filled with the names of fine and brave men who fought and died to maintain them. But this man Miller is an affront to democracy and an insult to their memory.
And…
Can you imagine this man sitting in the hallowed chamber of the House of Commons in his jeans and tee shirt, contributing nothing but a contemptuous silence to the great debates of state? All parties have united to condemn this political freak, Miller, a man who would turn the sacred seat of our democracy into a Barnum circus
.
After two more days of attacks delivered by opponents, Miller and King decided they could afford to give up the fight. They decided instead to fly to Spain for a few days in the sun. Their time was spent largely in a cycle of intoxication, intoxication-induced sleep and re-intoxication. King briefly latched upon the idea of having Miller photographed whilst enjoying a bull fight, but Miller was not interested.
“How about donkeys then?” King asked. “We’ll find a donkey, load it up with a massive pile of stuff, and then photograph you kicking it. We can’t fail to fail.”
But as far as Miller was concerned, the job was done.
And so it proved, late on election day, as he stood on the town hall balcony, together with all his opponents.
“I declare that the result of the election for the parliamentary candidate for the constituency of Cosworth is as follows,” the official said.
“Geoffrey Albert Ainsworth, Labour: four thousand, five hundred and fifty-seven.”
Ainsworth acknowledged the cheers of his supporters with a cursory wave.
“Philip Horatio Tatton-Brown, Conservative: six thousand, three hundred and twelve.”
Tatton-Brown looked visibly disappointed.
“Pamela Ann Lambert, Liberal Democrat: fifteen thousand, nine hundred and seventy-six.”
Loud applause rang out, as Lambert took a clear lead. A lengthy pause in the proceedings took place before things quietened down.
“Jamie Steven Miller, Don’t Vote for Me: sixteen thousand, seven hundred and seventy-four.”
TWENTY-TWO
The TV broadcasts the following morning were dominated by three stories: the election of a new government, the lowest electoral turnout in British history, and the shock victory of a rogue candidate in the Southern constituency of Cosworth.