In the grand tapestry of British history, few threads are as vibrant as our electoral traditions. Alas, in recent years, a creeping beige has infiltrated this once colourful corner of public life, dulling the spectacle and distancing the people from the very heart of democratic life. Nowhere is this more evident than in the local elections, where councils, under the flimsy guise of penny-pinching, have taken to postponing the count until the day after the vote, robbing us of a vital tradition.
Democracy is not a backroom deal or a spreadsheet tally, it’s a public act, a shared spectacle that demands to be seen, felt and lived
Cast your mind back to the raucous hustings of the 18th century, when elections were not the tame, technocratic exercises we know today but grand, chaotic spectacles that gripped the nation. Before the secret ballot, voting was a public affair. Men (for it was only men then) bellowed their choices in full view of their neighbours, their voices ringing out across market squares and village greens.
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