What happens when you run the 2010 party manifestos through a video game?

Assassinations, bombings and coups, among other things, as the promises made in the 2010 election get tested in the game of Democracy.

What happens when no-one wins an election? All of the manifestos carefully crafted for the 2010 election by our political overlords were, more than usually, a complete waste of time. But us lovers of alternate histories couldn’t help but wonder how they would have ruled if they’d actually won, outright, and what the outcomes of those bizarre manifestos might have been.

Only PC games can answer this question. Cliff Harris’s Democracy games are amongst the most bizarre simulations created, being as much a visualisation of the politic and economic topology of various countries as a game. You play the role of a newly elected party leader, trying to get re-elected as many times as possible whilst trying to retain as many principles as possible.

It’s not easy. In the Democracy games, almost every policy and economic decision affects other policies, the voting intentions of the population, and various key statistics about that population – many of which also affect each other. So putting a tax on petrol annoys motorists and pleases environmentalists, while reducing GDP and car usage. A reduction in GDP annoys capitalists, and reduced car usage improves air quality – which itself pleases environmentalists, and affects serious issues like pollution and asthma epidemic. Your aim is to cobble together a support base from a variety of factions, at just the right time to get re-elected.

The interface that presents all this is infotastic. The entire game is menus: striped tubes connecting linked issues, policies and factions, with the speed, direction and colour of the stripes indicating the amount and influence of the effects of each issue/policy/faction. You can remove and add policies at will, though Democracy 2 puts limits on your actions, depending on the loyalty, popularity and experience of your cabinet members, much like in reality.

So what would happen if we used these games to do what the political parties couldn’t, and carried out their election manifestos? With Democracy 2 as our laboratory and Great Britain as our petri dish, would we forge a utopian, economic powerhouse with Lib Dem ideals, or craft a new, compassionate society with the policies of the Conservatives? Would the Monster Raving Loony Party lead us to a new renaissance? Would environmental terrorists blow us up? Let’s find out.

How I Did It

  • Using my copies of the manifestos (yes, I bought them all), I’ve tried to determine the actual pledges that the parties had. I’ve matched these up to the extra policies you can implement in game and inputted them as the in-game start conditions for each party. For example, the Lib-Dems pledged to cut the size of the Department of Health by half (which I interpreted, perhaps erroneously, as the whole of the NHS), so I’ve simply slashed funding to the state heath service as one of their first moves; meanwhile, UKIP claimed they’d spend an extra 40 percent on defence, cumulatively every year, so I tried to replicate that throughtout the sim.
  • For scientific rigour, I ran the simulations in Democracy 1, then attempted to duplicate the results in Democracy 2 to see how the extra features react. Of course, with assassinations, booms and busts, it was hard to keep the games parallel, but I did my best. When I wrote this [in 2010], Democracy 3 wasn’t out yet.
  • Every party had the same background situation; terrifying economic volatility, a huge public debt, low interest rates, and relatively cynical voters; any policies we instituted are as near as we could get to the real party’s policies in that situation.
  • Democracy 2’s simulation is more complex, but doesn’t feature the UK. I’ve used a mod that adds it to the game, available from here.
  • (I’ve also tried to replicate each of the then-party leader’s speaking/writing style as much as possible – so GB is all passive and uses far too many clauses, NC is vapid and sincere, DC is… Tony Blair.)

Scenario one: Labour Wins (The Eternal Empire of Godron Broon)
Gordon writes: "Och? We won? I have to run this place for another 5 years? Mandy told me that if I insulted the voters and did my best Vincent Price smile, there was no chance I’d have to serve another term, I’d get to have a holiday, and then the complete cock-up of the economy would be the Tories’ fault. Right, right. What did we promise? Hmm. Looks like we said we’d throw money at everything, whilst also cutting costs. How the bloody hell did I work that one out? Oh; eyebrows Darling did the maths."

The Pledge – A Fairer Society: As Labour pledged, I make tax fairer – dropping VAT and pushing up income tax, so the upper and middle class pay more – and funnelling the profits into supporting business and a high tech, green economy. When you cut taxes in Democracy tax evasion drops, so the Keynesians out there will be happy to know I’m actually collecting nearly as much tax as before. Transport, from new motorways and airports, to electric cars and trains, gets buried under cash, which is a huge stimulus to the economy. I also fulfil my commitment to deal with terrorism by giving GCHQ and MI5 enough money to monitor everyone in the country through spy satellites. Their first finding is that religious types don’t like the money I poured into hi-tech (stem cell research), and are plotting against us. Let them, I think. It’s just as I’m signing a bill into law upping the minimum wage that the first bomb hits. It kills off Miliband Senior, which is no great loss. Onward!

Cabinet In The Woods: The debt is going down, but the liberals are getting antsy, pointing to my television-monitoring, the soaring homelessness and my rejection of freedom of information, to say that the comrades and I have been building a police state. Everyone else is getting antsy about the soaring crime rate and the disease epidemic – I even have to conduct a show trial for Milburn, as he was threatening to "spend more time with his family". Mandy is erasing him from the official photographs as I type. The next assassination attempt does for Blunkett, though thankfully his dog Sadie has survived him and will thrive in her new role as Home Secretary, where she will oversee the expansion of the DNA database. At this point, Archbishop Rowan Williams excommunicates me, and the polls have us on just 11 percent, with only a year left before the election. There’s no way I can pull this off again… Is there?

"Ten years pass, and Great Browntain goes from strength to strength; a technocratic, authoritarian, egalitarian utopia. The few Labour party MPs not killed during the multi-faith terror campaign have sadly moved onto more fulfilling roles in the Falkland gulags, so are spared the sorrow of seeing our beloved leader shot down at the 12th attempt by extreme Anglicans. It is with great humility that I, Comrade Mandelson, have agreed to step into his brogues, proudly dragging this country forward into a bright, red future."

Scenario two: Lib-Dem Victory (The Rise and Fall of Nicholas Clegg)
Nick writes: “How the hell did the Lib-dems end up in charge? That’s a very good question, Tim, and a good question is a question worth answering. Answer it I will. Our goal is to answer that question, not in the old discredited way that the other two parties would have, but a new way. For a new question. A hopeful way for the 21st century. So thank you for that question – Tim. Vince has just passed me a note saying 'answer the damn question, you crawly windbag', which is a vital point, and a point we can trust…”

The Pledge – Education: As the Lib-Dems pledged, I immediately slash 50 percent of the health and defence budgets (I presume cancelling the Trident replacement and the new Eurofighters), and use it to raise public sector pay, increase state pensions, reform the schools, and provide student grants for all. I fiddle with the tax system, reducing VAT and moving the bills onto the wealthy, polluters, motorists and airlines; the excess subsidises the rail networks, rural communities and small businesses. Then we sit back, and wait for all of these changes to trickle through.

It’s My Party, They’ll Cry If I Want Them To: With all this intervention, it turns out that the liberal-democrats themselves are a bit pissed off, so I get Nicky to lay into the monarchy and chop back the security services; now the liberals are happy, but the patriots are pissed off, and get more pissed off as the defence cuts kick in. The NHS cuts are literally killing us (through an asthma epidemic) as well as destroying us electorally, but it stabilises quickly as we use our massive surplus to pay off our international debts, then cut income TAX, VAT and corporation tax. A despairing gang of generals attempt to mount a coup, but are shot down at Downing Street; all’s going well, the UK’s well on the way to a technological utopia, and the Lib-Dems are proving that they’re not just a one issue party.

“Vince here. While that supercilious meat-puppet swanned about saving the world, it was the job of twinkletoes here to keep the UK economy on the straight and narrow; it turns out the generals were just one prong of the attack though, as Nicky was assassinated by a lone patriotic gunman, just before the election. Without a leader, even one as flaccid as him, we couldn’t compete, so I start talks about coalition… with Labour.”

Scenario three: Tory Victory (Cameron and on and on)
Call-me-Dave writes: “No, I need the spotlight to bring out the blue in my eyes. Well, can’t you photoshop it in afterwards? And could you airbrush out the frown lines? Great, great. Oh, hi! Yes, we always knew we were going to win an absolute majority. With policies like ours, how could we not? I mean, basically, the plan was to keep our heads down and wait for Gordon to cock it up. Job done, Bullingdon boys in Number 10. Oh. The economy’s screwed.”

The Pledge: Tories are traditionally great believers in fulfilling their pledges, except when no-one’s watching, but sadly everyone is. So we spend the first month dealing with the deficit; that is, cutting taxes on the rich and corporations. Mad Cow Disease re-appears, and wipes out our support amongst farmers. I freeze public sector spending and state pensions, and transfer the funds to the NHS. Then I cut corporation tax, and replace it with pro-environmental taxes, to get this country working on a, y’know, progressive footing. We push down the huge defense bill (which, with a spy scandal, has the patriots up in arms, but I back the royal family and they love me again), and transfer the funds to subsidies for the railways, green local transport and SMEs (small businesses). Then we limit unskilled workers entering the country. We cancel the Heathrow expansion, as our GDP's booming (mainly due to the longest boom in global economics ever) so we’re running a tremendous surplus with low unemployment.

A Well-Hung Parliament: The trade unionists are whingeing now, the liberals are enraged and I’m condemned by the pope; cynically, we drop middle class income tax in the budget, and promise to cut it more for the next election. A military whistleblower knocks down our right-wing ratings again, and running up to the election the polls are nightmarishly close – we win by a tiny majority again, and the party’s grumbling. Again, the economy is doing great guns, but our poll ratings are held down by dreadful events – more foot and mouth, another spy scandal, sweatshops caused by our cancelling the minimum wage. We last the next four years without changing much, and win the next election by a huge margin.

"It seriously looks like we’re going to win the next election standing on our heads – but we forgot the pledges we made in our manifesto and are kicked out. Well, that was a good stint. I’ve become the longest serving Conservative PM since Robert Jenkinson in the 18th Century, and we only got kicked out because I’d made the country too perfect, thanks to an endless global boom, and couldn’t match the election promises I’d had to make. Looks like you can take the silver spoon out of the boy, but you can’t take the boy out of the… the… George! I need an analogy!"

And as for the rest of the smaller parties:

BNP: Our first step; the death penalty for drug dealers and terrorists. It’s in the manifesto, don’t act surprised. Then national service, stronger prisons and police, and strong education and health systems. Then a prison island in the south pacific for the paedophiles and rapists. Then voluntary local currencies and tax cuts. Then… bugger. We’ve been bombed, by everyone except the conservatives. Should’ve kept one or two spies, perhaps, rather than throwing all that money at the army. Um… and that deficit? Ouch. At least we’ve got the homeless off the streets and into uniforms. Um… except I got hounded from office for being so in-debt. Funny, I was sure I’d be assassinated; turns out it’s really hard to turn liberals militant.

UKIP: As an elderly arm of the Tory party, UKIP has lots of spending commitments, particularly for pensioners. Their tactic, from their manifesto, seems to be to solve lots of problems through spending huge amounts of money – such as a 40% increase in the already-huge military budget, £30 billion on flood defences, more spending on cutting foreign ties… unsurprisingly, I find it utterly impossible to balance the books according to their manifesto and get hounded from office by my own party.

Green: The Greens, of all the parties, took the most care at the last election to completely cost their policies, which makes running the country as them surprisingly easy. As the only remaining national party of the left, they obviously slash defence and use it to pay for a huge variety of environmental and union-friendly proposals. Sadly, in our run-through, despite their clever costing and variety of progressive incentives, they lost the right wing entirely early on (with Patriotic plots galore), saw internet-based crime go through the roof due to their support for tech, and were wiped out by a horrendous global recession – as Cliffski always says “events, dear boy, events.” Before they could be kicked out by the electorate, Prime Minister Caroline Lucas was executed by a Patriot death squad that penetrated Parliament itself. Y’ouch.

Monster Raving Loony: The party now run by the late Screaming Lord Sutch’s cat promised many things, most of which are hard to implement in a simulation. Changing the ‘X’ you write to vote to a tick, because “X is as good as writing ‘monumental cock-up’” isn’t in the options. As are dedicated pogo-stick lanes on the motorways and allowing Hovercrafts to go anywhere they like because they’re inflatable, so “being hit by one is less painful” than a car.

As the manifesto seems to have been written by a five-year old with ADD, and most of their policies are anarchistic, anti-authoritarian jokes, I just remove all the funding I can, to end up with the sort of small government that backwater survivalists in Montana dream of. This results in inner-city riots, attacks by every sort of pressure group, drug addiction, gridlock, an antisocial behaviour epidemic, armed robberies and, weirdly, huge support from the trade unions. They must like a joke, then. Meanwhile, an environmentalist group called The Green Brigades is sending me death threats and bombing our cities, while celebrities keep endorsing me. I have to fire half my cabinet before they can quit, but it doesn’t stop the Green meanies blowing up the undefended Downing Street and me with it.

Execution Summary – Bomb or Boot?
When and how our glorious leaders were carried from office.

Brown – 14 years, bomb.
Cameron – 15 years, boot
Clegg – 4.5 years, bomb
BNP  - 3.5 years, boot
UKIP – 3 years boot
Green – 4.5 years bomb
Loony – 3 years bomb

This piece originally appeared on Daniel Griliopoulos' blog, Funambulism. He tweets as @GriddleOctopus.

Ah, remember the good old days? (Photo: Getty)
JAMIE KINGHAM/MILLENNIUM
Show Hide image

Snakebites and body parts

The city at the edge of an apocalypse: a love letter to Los Angeles.

I was emailing with Kenneth Anger, the film-maker, when the coyotes across the street in Griffith Park started howling.

That’s partially true.

I was emailing him to ask if he’d direct a music video for me. Maybe Lucifer Rising 2.0. Or anything.

Just him in the kitchen making tea, as recorded on his iPhone.

Kenneth Anger is alive and well in Santa Monica, so why not ask him to direct a video for me? Hopefully, he’ll respond. We’ve never met, so I sent an email to him, not with him. That’s the partial truth.

But the coyotes did start howling.

It’s the single best sound in Los Angeles, or any city. Is there another city where you can email an 89-year-old devotee of Aleister Crowley while listening to a few dozen coyotes screaming and howling and ripping the night into little pieces?

No. Just here. This oddness by the sea and an inch from a billion acres of Arrakis.

I never thought I’d end up living in Los Angeles, but I’ve ended up living in Los Angeles. This dirtiest, strangest paradise.

Yesterday I went hiking in a two-million-acre state park that’s 30 minutes from my house. A state park bigger than all of New York City. And it’s 30 minutes away. With no people. Just bears and pumas and coyotes and snakes.

And other things. Abandoned bridges. An observatory where Albert Einstein used to go to watch space.

What a strange city.

A perfect city. Perfect for humans at the edge of this strangely unfolding apocalypse. A gentle apocalypse with trade winds and Santa Ana winds and the biannual vicious storm that rips eucalyptus trees up by their roots.

What a strange city. And it’s my home.

Today I hiked to the back of the Hollywood sign. This was before Kenneth Anger and the coyotes.

The tourists were dropping like flies on the long, hot mountain trail, not aware that this isn’t a city with the safe European ­infrastructure that keeps them happy
and/or alive.

Every now and then, a tourist dies in the hills, bitten by a snake or lost at night. The emergency rooms are full of tourists with snakebites and heatstroke.

Where are the European safeguards?

Fuck us if we need safeguards. Go live in a place like this gentle wasteland where you’re not at the top of the food chain. If you’re not in danger of being eaten at some point in the day, you’re probably not breathing right.

I hope Kenneth Anger writes back.

 

22 May

I drove some friends around my neighbourhood. They want to live here. Why wouldn’t they? Pee-wee Herman and Thom Yorke live up the street.

David Fincher lives a block away. It’s blocks and blocks of jasmine-scented name-
dropping.

It’s warm in the winter and it’s weird all year round.

And there’s a Frank Lloyd Wright that looks like a lunatic Mayan spaceship.

And there go the coyotes again, howling like adorable delegates of death.

They’re so smart, I wish they would make me their king.

You hate Los Angeles? Who cares? You made a mistake, you judged it like you’d judge a city. Where’s the centre?

There’s no centre. You want a centre? The centre cannot hold. Slouching towards Bethlehem. Things fall apart.

Amazing how many titles can come from one poem. What’s a gyre?

Yeats and Kenneth Anger and Aleister Crowley. All these patterns.

Then we had brunch in my art deco pine-tree-themed restaurant, which used to sell cars and now sells organic white tea and things.

The centre cannot hold. I still have no idea what a gyre is.

Maybe something Irish or Celtic.

It’s nice that they asked me to write this journal.

Things fall apart.

So you hate Los Angeles? Ha. It still loves you, like the sandy golden retriever it is. Tell me again how you hate the city loved by David Lynch and where David Bowie made his best album? Listen to LA Woman by the Doors and watch Lynch’s Lost Highway and read some Joan Didion – and maybe for fun watch Nightcrawler – and tell me again how you hate LA.

I fucking love this sprawling inchoate pile of everything.

Even at its worst, it’s hiding something baffling or remarkable.

Ironic that the city of the notoriously ­vapid is the city of deceiving appearance.

After brunch, we went hiking.

Am I a cliché? Yes. I hike. I do yoga. I’m a vegan. I even meditate. As far as clichés go, I prefer this to the hungover, cynical, ruined, sad, grey cliché I was a decade ago.

“You’re not going to live for ever.”

Of course not.

But why not have a few bouncy decades that otherwise would’ve been spent in a hospital or trailing an oxygen tank through a damp supermarket?

 

24 May

A friend said: “The last time I had sex, it was warm and sunny.”

Well, that’s helpful.

October? June? February?

No kidding, the coyotes are howling again. I still love them. Have you ever heard a pack of howling coyotes?

Imagine a gaggle of drunk college girls who also happened to be canine demons. Screaming with blood on their teeth.

It’s such a beautiful sound but it also kind of makes you want to hide in a closet.

No Kenneth Anger.

Maybe I’m spam.

Vegan spam.

Come on, Kenneth, just make a video for me, OK?

I’ll take anything.

Even three minutes of a plant on a radiator.

I just received the hardcover copy of my autobiography, Porcelain. And, like anyone, I skimmed the pictures. I’m so classy, eating an old sandwich in my underpants.

A friend’s dad had got an advance copy and was reading it. I had to issue the cautious caveat: “Well, I hope he’s not too freaked out by me dancing in my own semen while surrounded by a roomful of cross-dressing Stevie Nicks-es.”

If I ever have kids, I might have one simple rule. Or a few simple rules.

Dear future children of mine:

1) Don’t vote Republican.

2) Don’t get facial tattoos.

3) Don’t read my memoir.

I don’t need my currently unmade children to be reading about their dear dad during his brief foray into the world of professional dominatrixing, even if it was brief.

The first poem I loved was by Yeats: “When You Are Old”. I sent it to my high-school non-girlfriend. The girl I longed for, unrequitedly. I’m guessing I’m not the first person to have sent “When You Are Old” to an unrequited love.

Today the sky was so strangely clear. I mean, the sky is almost always clear. We live in a desert. But today it felt strangely clear, like something was missing. The sun felt magnified.

And then, at dusk, I noticed the gold light slanting through some oak trees and hitting the green sides of the mountains (they were green as we actually had rain over the winter). The wild flowers catch the slanting gold light and you wonder, this is a city? What the fuck is this baffling place?

I add the “fuck” for street cred. Or trail cred, as I’m probably hiking. As I’m a cliché.

You hike, or I hike, in the middle of a city of almost 20 million people and you’re alone. Just the crows and the spiralling hawks and the slanting gold light touching the oak trees and the soon-to-go-away
wild flowers.

The end of the world just feels closer here, but it’s nice, somehow. Maybe the actual end of the world won’t be so nice but the temporal proximity can be OK. In the slanting gold light. You have to see it, the canyons in shadow and the tops of the hills in one last soft glow.

What a strange non-city.

 

25 May

They asked for only four journal entries, so here’s the last one.

And why is # a “hashtag”?

Hash? Like weird meat or weird marijuana? Tag, like the game?

At least “blog” has an etymology, even if, as a word, it sounds like a fat clog in a drain.

A friend who works in an emergency room had a patient delivered to her who had a croquet ball in his lower intestine. I guess there’s a lesson there: always have friends who work in emergency rooms, as they have the best stories.

No coyotes tonight. But there’s a long, lonesome, faraway train whistle or horn. Where?

Where in LA would there be a long, lonesome, faraway train whistle or horn?

It’s such a faraway sound. Lonesome hoboes watching the desert from an empty train car. Going where?

I met a woman recently who found human body parts in some bags while she
was hiking.

Technically, her dogs found them.

Then she found the dogs.

And then the sky was full of helicopters, as even in LA it’s unusual to have human hands and things left in bags near a hiking trail a few hundred yards from Brad Pitt’s house.

What is this place?

When I used to visit LA, I marvelled at the simple things, like gas stations and guest bedrooms.

I was a New Yorker.

And the gas stations took credit cards. At. The. Pumps.

What was this magic?

And people had Donald Judd beds in their living rooms, just slightly too small for actual sleeping – but, still, there’s your Donald Judd bed. In your living room at the top of the hill somewhere, with an ocean a dozen miles away but so clear you can see Catalina.

They drained the reservoir and now don’t know what to do with it.

Good old LA, confused by things like empty reservoirs in the middle of the city.

Maybe that’s where the lonesome train lives. And it only comes out at night, to make the sound of a lonesome train whistle, echoing from the empty concrete reservoir that’s left the city nonplussed.

“We’ve never had an empty reservoir in the city before.”

So . . . Do something great with it. I know, it’s a burden being given a huge gift of ­empty real estate in the middle of the city.

Tomorrow I’m meeting some more friends who’ve moved here from New York.

“We have a guest bedroom!” they crow.

A century ago, the Griffith Park planners planted redwoods across the street. And now the moon is waning but shining, far away but soft, through the redwoods.

No coyotes, but a waning moon through some towering redwoods is still really OK. As it’s a city that isn’t a city, and it’s my home.

Goodnight.

Moby’s memoir, “Porcelain”, is published by Faber & Faber

This article first appeared in the 26 May 2016 issue of the New Statesman, The Brexit odd squad