Melissa Kite

Real life | 11 April 2019

Real life | 11 April 2019
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With very little expectation they would care, I sent an email to Mole Valley Conservatives.

It always amuses me, that name. It reminds me that in Ever Decreasing Circles the character played by Richard Briers worked at Mole Valley Valves. Martin Bryce, you may remember, was a narcissistic, obsessive, middle-aged man at the centre of a suburban community in Surrey. He was a relatively unsympathetic character, although Briers said it was his favourite sitcom role.

I suppose I have much in common with the miserable Bryce. Bitterly, I sent an email to Mole Valley Conservatives. ‘To whom it may concern: We didn’t leave the EU but I can leave You. I hereby renounce any connection with, support for, leafleting help or vote I have ever given the Conservative party and notify you of my intention never to vote for you or help you again and to campaign against the Tories in all elections. Yours disgusted…’

To my surprise I got a reply barely an hour later, quicker than any response I have ever had from an MP’s office. The gist of it was that the MP in question had received ‘a number of emails’ expressing a similar sentiment to mine. He wanted to emphasise his ‘own disappointment and displeasure at the events of yesterday. He will be passing his own objections and those of his local party members up to the top of the government and the party. In the meantime, he will continue to do everything possible to deliver a clean break with the EU as per the terms of the withdrawal agreement — and lobby to ensure that the deal on offer is not softened to include things such as a customs union.’

That night, he and all the other MPs attempting to stand up for Britain got their backsides whooped again by a Remainer plot. Whatever.

I stared at the poll card on the desk in front of me. I think on balance that if I really am so ignorant and uninformed, and if my vote and the votes of 17.4 million others is so misplaced and inconvenient, then they won’t be wanting any more of them, will they?

I might rip up my poll card inside the polling station on 2 May in front of a totally disinterested small crowd, or I might enter the booth and spoil my ballot paper by writing an intemperate message on it, such as: ‘Go find some nice shiny Remainer votes to boost your turnout, you lying tosspots, you’re not getting my vote again.’

How has it come to this? I have never missed an election. I’d turn up to put a cross in a box with a stubby pencil to elect a new shelf stacker at the local One Stop if I was asked, because in my grandmother’s lifetime women chained themselves to railings for my right to vote.

But it has all changed now, hasn’t it? The establishment and the vocal minority of Remainer bullies who hang off the establishment coattails have sent me a clear message that my vote doesn’t count.

I wrote a letter to Donald Trump, very childish I’m sure. I asked if he would let me in. I claimed asylum. I told him I live in a rogue state where my rights are being trampled on.

Unlike Mole Valley Valves, sorry Conservatives, I didn’t hear back from him within the hour, of course, but I hold out a forlorn hope the email will be seen by someone who might just think ‘this is a bit rum, maybe we’ll put this in front of the President just in case it grabs him as interesting that a desperate citizen of the EU regime is confirming everything he has been telling his own people about why they should stand up for Western values’.

You never know. Stranger things have happened. The form you fill in to contact the President runs out after so many words so my cri de coeur ended with ‘please help’. I didn’t even have room for a full stop.

As a natural pessimist at the best of times, I am teetering on the edge. I went to see my horses and a girl with a horse in the next door field burst straight into Remainer rhetoric, talking about the various marches she had been on. She said she took her cocker spaniel with her ‘on his first demo’. Marched him for eight hours. Leaving the left-wing brainwashing of dogs aside, I machine-gunned her with a 20-minute distress signal, culminating in: ‘But you don’t need to worry. You’re in the minority. And the minority will impose its will on the majority. So cheer up!’

But she didn’t cheer up. She looked pretty miserable. I guess that’s the one thing we all have in common.