Philip Hensher has narrated this article for you to listen to.
One of us must once have told a political pollster: ‘I really have no idea at all who I’m going to vote for.’ A moment of mild exasperation put us down as ‘Don’t knows’. Forever afterwards, the prospect of an election, whether for Wandsworth council, the Mayor of London or the Battersea parliamentary constituency, brings them out. The doorbell goes, and there is a bright-faced, footsore, ill-dressed but dedicated party activist, clutching a clipboard. Without exception, each is firmly convinced that he knows what you are going to complain about.
‘Why do runners need compulsory declarations that something is “fun”, and amplification, and techno?’
‘Do you have any concerns about your neighbourhood?’ a Labour canvasser once asked. I couldn’t immediately think of anything, so he helpfully prompted: ‘What about the Ethiopian church round the corner?’
I must have looked puzzled. The church used to be an old and unattended Anglican church, which some years ago was handed over to Ethiopian Coptics. It’s very popular – the hundreds of white-robed worshippers and the lavish canopies at festivals are one of the picturesque sights of the neighbourhood. They are always having expulsions on remote theological questions. Sometimes half the congregation holds their own fissiparous service in the churchyard in a passive-aggressive style. I rather love the murmuring plainsong from within when you walk by on a Sunday morning. I couldn’t think why anyone would have concerns about them.
‘There’s been a few issues,’ the canvasser explained. ‘There’s been arguments breaking out in the congregation.’ ‘What sort of arguments?’ I asked. ‘Disagreements,’ he said. ‘One time, the police had to be called.’ It seemed to me among the odder obligations of the Metropolitan Police, to adjudicate accusations of heresy between Coptic factions, but in any case, the disagreements had not much impinged on our regular life. ‘Some people are concerned,’ he finished up. ‘I can’t say I am,’ I said, and he gave up on me.
Anyway, the next time one came along I had a few neighbourhood concerns to mention, rather than lack of concerns. I thought I’d start on a positive note. I was really pleased, I said, that Wandsworth council wasn’t cluttering up the street with half a dozen bins per household – in my view, a serious visual pollutant in residential streets. The canvasser backed away nervously. Had a compliment been paid ironically?
‘But,’ I said, ‘we’re not very happy about the increase in the number of organised jogging events in Battersea Park. They take over the park at least twice a month.’ ‘What’s wrong with that?’ he said with a certain truculency. ‘It makes a lot of the park impossible to use,’ I said. ‘And it seems to require massive amounts of amplified encouragement – you know, “Go on guys! You can do it! Reach for the stars!” And amplified techno! All over the park for hours. Dreadful.’
I thought I wouldn’t say that the last time a dogwalking friend and I came across one of these jogging bonanzas, we started shouting our own inspirational encouragements: ‘You go guys! Chafe those thighs! Every step, another brain cell gone! Pulverise that short-term memory! One hour closer to death! You go guys!’ Greta, our schnauzer, who loves anyone new, had wandered into the hallway to see who I was talking to. The canvasser looked at me in a disapproving way.
‘Everyone thinks a fun run is great,’ he said. “I’ve never heard anyone complain about them.’ ‘Well,’ I said, ‘you asked me if I had any concerns, and you’re hearing a concern now.’ ‘I don’t think many people would agree with you,’ he said. Not for the first time, I reflected that a surprising proportion of the human race think ‘Most people think…’ is an argument at all likely on its own to change someone’s mind about anything. I mean, most people think George Eliot was a man.
‘Don’t get me wrong,’ I said, in best conciliatory style. ‘I love Battersea Park. It’s really well organised. But why can’t people just jog around on their own? Why do they need compulsory declarations that something is “fun”, and amplification, and techno, and telling the usual lot that they’ve got to go another way round? I mean…’ ‘Stakeholders tell us…’ the canvasser began confidently. But at that point Greta took against our caller, and began barking furiously. What the fast-retreating canvasser put me down as, I don’t know. Don’t know, probably.
‘Someone at the door, getting your goat,’ Zaved said comfortably. Greta jumped back on the sofa, all animosity gone. ‘I don’t know why they ask you what you think if they’re going to tell you you shouldn’t think that,’ I said. ‘What party was he from?’ Zaved said. ‘No idea. Peace and Reconciliation for Wandsworth, maybe.’
None of it worked. The fun runs continue to multiply. This week small brown plastic bins appeared, unheralded, outside every front door. The harbingers of multitudes, no doubt. As for the Ethiopian church, on Saturday they held an all-nighter, lulling us off to sleep with the pleasant drone of pre-mediaeval plainchant. They’ve seen off war, famine and Mussolini. The disapproval of the pollsters of Battersea won’t be a problem.
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