Christine O’Donnell is not a witch . . . She’s you

O’Donnell’s latest campaign video is bizarre, terrifying and utterly enthralling.

Christine O'Donnell has released her latest campaign advert. Staring into the camera with doe eyes and a grin like burning phosphorus, O'Donnell lays out her pitch for the Senate.

It starts bizarrely, with O'Donnell stating: "I am not a witch." On balance, this is a good thing. Witchcraft might have its advantages ("I'll make the deficit disappear -- IN A PUFF OF SMOKE!") but when your base is the Christian right, I suppose the occult is a liability.

As far as reassuring electoral slogans go, however, "I'm not a witch" ranks up there with "I'm not a drunk" or "I don't hit my wife". If Barack Obama had plumped for "I'm not a wizard" rather than "Yes we can", he would probably -- actually, scratch that -- hopefully still be stuck in the Senate.

The advert takes a metaphysical twist when O'Donnell adds cryptically: "I'm nothing you've heard. I'm you." (Unless of course, you happen be a witch. In which case she definitely isn't you. She's not a witch. She really wants to make that clear.) Apparently there is a little bit of Christine in all of us. This means that, via the wonders of democracy, you too could join the Senate, with O'Donnell as your avatar.

O'Donnell has turned herself into the vanguard of the anti-intelligence movement. "I'll go to Washington and I'd do what you would do." No need for the avatar; O'Donnell is your average Joe. After all, she points out: "None of us are perfect." So why not elect me? Heck, anyone else would probably make a hash of it, too, so give me a crack.

Will Bunch sums up the thinking eloquently.

I'm reminded of a famous line from the back at the dawn of the age of resentment back in 1970 when a GOP senator named Roman Hruska argued for a lame Richard Nixon Supreme Court nominee by saying: "There are a lot of mediocre judges and people and lawyers. They are entitled to a little representation, aren't they?"

Scarily, according to Bunch, playing the anti-intelligence card could be a rather good idea:

"I'm you" is pitch perfect for this throw-the-eggheads-out election. It probably won't work for O'Donnell, not in the politically hen-blue state of Delaware, but it may work for a generation of pols from Nevada to Kentucky who will govern at least like they think that "you" would -- with very serious consequences for America for many, many years to come.

The advert lasts barely 30 seconds but it stays with you. Her grin, her eyes, her words all wash over you as a tinkling lullaby plays in the background. It's almost hypnotic. It's certainly terrifying. Watch it.

 

Getty Images
Show Hide image

Is there such a thing as responsible betting?

Punters are encouraged to bet responsibly. What a laugh that is. It’s like encouraging drunks to get drunk responsibly, to crash our cars responsibly, murder each other responsibly.

I try not to watch the commercials between matches, or the studio discussions, or anything really, before or after, except for the match itself. And yet there is one person I never manage to escape properly – Ray Winstone. His cracked face, his mesmerising voice, his endlessly repeated spiel follow me across the room as I escape for the lav, the kitchen, the drinks cupboard.

I’m not sure which betting company he is shouting about, there are just so many of them, offering incredible odds and supposedly free bets. In the past six years, since the laws changed, TV betting adverts have increased by 600 per cent, all offering amazingly simple ways to lose money with just one tap on a smartphone.

The one I hate is the ad for BetVictor. The man who has been fronting it, appearing at windows or on roofs, who I assume is Victor, is just so slimy and horrible.

Betting firms are the ultimate football parasites, second in wealth only to kit manufacturers. They have perfected the capitalist’s art of using OPM (Other People’s Money). They’re not directly involved in football – say, in training or managing – yet they make millions off the back of its popularity. Many of the firms are based offshore in Gibraltar.

Football betting is not new. In the Fifties, my job every week at five o’clock was to sit beside my father’s bed, where he lay paralysed with MS, and write down the football results as they were read out on Sports Report. I had not to breathe, make silly remarks or guess the score. By the inflection in the announcer’s voice you could tell if it was an away win.

Earlier in the week I had filled in his Treble Chance on the Littlewoods pools. The “treble” part was because you had three chances: three points if the game you picked was a score draw, two for a goalless draw and one point for a home or away win. You chose eight games and had to reach 24 points, or as near as possible, then you were in the money.

“Not a damn sausage,” my father would say every week, once I’d marked and handed him back his predictions. He never did win a sausage.

Football pools began in the 1920s, the main ones being Littlewoods and Vernons, both based in Liverpool. They gave employment to thousands of bright young women who checked the results and sang in company choirs in their spare time. Each firm spent millions on advertising. In 1935, Littlewoods flew an aeroplane over London with a banner saying: Littlewoods Above All!

Postwar, they blossomed again, taking in £50m a year. The nation stopped at five on a Saturday to hear the scores, whether they were interested in football or not, hoping to get rich. BBC Sports Report began in 1948 with John Webster reading the results. James Alexander Gordon took over in 1974 – a voice soon familiar throughout the land.

These past few decades, football pools have been left behind, old-fashioned, low-tech, replaced by online betting using smartphones. The betting industry has totally rebooted itself. You can bet while the match is still on, trying to predict who will get the next goal, the next corner, the next throw-in. I made the last one up, but in theory you can bet instantly, on anything, at any time.

The soft sell is interesting. With the old football pools, we knew it was a remote flutter, hoping to make some money. Today the ads imply that betting on football somehow enhances the experience, adds to the enjoyment, involves you in the game itself, hence they show lads all together, drinking and laughing and putting on bets.

At the same time, punters are encouraged to do it responsibly. What a laugh that is. It’s like encouraging drunks to get drunk responsibly, to crash our cars responsibly, murder each other responsibly. Responsibly and respect are now two of the most meaningless words in the football language. People have been gambling, in some form, since the beginning, watching two raindrops drip down inside the cave, lying around in Roman bathhouses playing games. All they’ve done is to change the technology. You have to respect that.

Hunter Davies is a journalist, broadcaster and profilic author perhaps best known for writing about the Beatles. He is an ardent Tottenham fan and writes a regular column on football for the New Statesman.

This article first appeared in the 05 February 2015 issue of the New Statesman, Putin's war