Votes being counted in Scotland last year. Photo: Ben Stansall/AFP/Getty Images
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There may be nothing to vote for — but there's plenty to vote against

Not voting isn't passive, but it only works if politicians care what you think. To be counted, you have to step into the ballot box - if only to register your disgust.

This isn’t going to be a guilt trip. There’s a set of standard arguments you’re supposed to make to persuade people to vote when there’s nothing to vote for. I could tell you that it’s your civic duty. I could tell you that if you don’t vote, you can’t complain. I could remind you that generations of men and women gave their lives and limbs for your right to select the shyster whose necktie you least despise. All of these arguments are nonsense.

It’s the one about the suffragettes that gets me every time. You see, the suffragettes didn’t want the vote because they believed in the parliamentary establishment. They weren’t just a lot of placard-waving biddies in implausible hats. These were people whose idea of a strong political statement was wrapped around a brick and hurled through a minister’s window. They were considered terrorists and treated as such by the police. They wanted the vote because they believed that it was a means by which the disenfranchised – in this case, women – could be taken seriously as political agents.

Not so long ago, some of us believed that change could come from within the system. We were wrong. I endorsed the Liberal Democrats in 2010, a fact that tops the long list of stupid things I did in my early twenties, but the feeling of hope was genuine and so was the pain of betrayal. Now, many people feel that the best way to deal with this depressing situation is not to vote at all. I don’t admire that choice but I respect it. Refusing to vote, after all, is not a sign of passivity. It is an act of passive aggression and passive aggression is something the British have a talent for. It’s an unlimited national resource, like rainy schooldays and former PR men with faces like boiled ham running for parliament on rafts of brittle promises.

But the thing about passive aggression is that it is effective only if the person it is directed at cares what you think. Anyone who has ever been in an abusive relationship knows that when someone only really cares about having power over you, they don’t care if you’re passive-aggressive, just as long as you’re mostly passive.

And that is what we’re dealing with in this election. The Tories, in particular, would prefer you not to vote, especially if you are young or poor or a welfare claimant. They would prefer not to have to count you among the people who matter.

It hurts to write that. It hurts even to think about it. But I have watched the same debates and read the same insipid press releases and lived on the same anxious, bitter clutch of islands where you have lived for the past five years. I’ve watched the Tories trash the welfare state, tear up the social contract and send in the riot squads to round up and beat down any person who dared to voice their dissent without filling in a form and shuffling politely into line. I’ve watched the Liberal Democrats roll over and let them do it. I’ve watched the Labour Party trade away a century of goodwill by failing to provide any alternative to austerity, capitulating to right-wing lies, tossing the sick, the poor and the vulnerable out like ballast as the hot air of political consensus blows rightwards. I’ve watched Ukip fear-monger its way to a platform in a way that would be utterly inexplicable if the progressive parliamentary establishment wasn’t so spineless it has to be propped up to deliver its soundbites.

What are we supposed to do with this rotating cast of political disappointments, this hydra with a hundred arseholes? How do we express our disgust for this antique shell of a democracy? I wish, more than anything, that there was a simple answer. The truth is far more complex and infinitely sadder: whatever the outcome of this election, there is a battle ahead for anyone who believes in social justice. The truth right now is that there is only one choice you get, and that’s the face of your enemy. The candidates aren’t all the same but they look similar enough if you squint: a narrow palette of inertia and entitlement. We made the mistake of thinking they were all the same in 2010, that the Tories could not possibly be worse than New Labour. Turns out we were wrong. The question on the table isn’t whether we’ll ever get the government we deserve. The question is whether we want the next five years to be disastrous or merely depressing. The choice is between different shades of disillusion.

That’s hardly a slogan to get the blood pumping. My own pulse has remained steady, save for those moments when Nigel Farage appears on TV talking about immigrants bringing HIV to Britain and doing his dastardly trick of making David Cameron look reasonable, at which point the vein in my temple starts hammering like it’s trapped behind the door of a burning building. Thankfully, voting is not where democracy begins and ends. It never has been.

Democracy, as the scholar and activist Howard Zinn writes, “is not the counting up of votes, but the counting up of actions”. The change that most people in Britain want to see is not being offered at this election. That change will come only if people fight for it. It will take direct action. It will take courage, and work, and time, and more work. The suffragettes understood that. They understood that democracy does not end at the ballot box. If we are lucky, it starts there. It starts with choosing your enemy.

Right now, there may not be much to vote for but there’s plenty to vote against. Go out and vote, if you can stand it, and I hope you can. Vote in disgust. Vote in despair. If I see you at the polling station with a grin on your face, I will worry, unless you have the good fortune to be Scottish. Vote against bigotry, hatred and fear. Vote today and change the world tomorrow. We are not as powerless as they would have us believe. Choose your enemy and choose wisely. Good luck.

Laurie Penny is a contributing editor to the New Statesman. She is the author of five books, most recently Unspeakable Things.

This article first appeared in the 17 April 2015 issue of the New Statesman, The Election Special

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Rarely has it mattered so little if Manchester United won; rarely has it been so special they did

Team's Europa League victory offers chance for sorely needed celebration of a city's spirit.

Carlo Ancelotti, the Bayern Munich manager, memorably once said that football is “the most important of the least important things”, but he was only partly right. While it is absolutely the case that a bunch of people chasing around a field is insignificant, a bunch of people chasing around a field is not really what football is about.

At a football match can you set aside the strictures that govern real life and freely scream, shout and cuddle strangers. Football tracks life with such unfailing omnipresence, garnishing the mundane with regular doses of drama and suspense; football is amazing, and even when it isn’t there’s always the possibility that it’s about to be.

Football bestows primal paroxysms of intense, transcendent ecstasy, shared both with people who mean everything and people who mean nothing. Football carves out time for people it's important to see and delivers people it becomes important to see. Football is a structure with folklore, mythology, language and symbols; being part of football is being part of something big, special, and eternal. Football is the best thing in the world when things go well, and still the best thing in the world when they don’t. There is nothing remotely like it. Nothing.

Football is about community and identity, friends and family; football is about expression and abandon, laughter and song; football is about love and pride. Football is about all the beauty in the world.

And the world is a beautiful place, even though it doesn’t always seem that way – now especially. But in the horror of terror we’ve seen amazing kindness, uplifting unity and awesome dignity which is the absolute point of everything.

In Stockholm last night, 50,000 or so people gathered for a football match, trying to find a way of celebrating all of these things. Around town before the game the atmosphere was not as boisterous as usual, but in the ground the old conviction gradually returned. The PA played Bob Marley’s Three Little Birds, an Ajax staple with lyrics not entirely appropriate: there is plenty about which to worry, and for some every little thing is never going to be alright.

But somehow the sentiment felt right and the Mancunian contingent joined in with gusto, following it up with “We’ll never die,” – a song of defiance born from the ashes of the Munich air disaster and generally aired at the end of games, often when defeat is imminent. Last night it was needed from the outset, though this time its final line – “we’ll keep the red flag flying high, coz Man United will never die" – was not about a football team but a city, a spirit, and a way of life. 

Over the course of the night, every burst of song and even the minute's silence chorused with that theme: “Manchester, Manchester, Manchester”; “Manchester la la la”; “Oh Manchester is wonderful”. Sparse and simple words, layered and complex meanings.

The match itself was a curious affair. Rarely has it mattered so little whether or not United won; rarely has it been so special that they did. Manchester United do not represent or appeal to everyone in Manchester but they epitomise a similar brilliance to Manchester, brilliance which they take to the world. Brilliance like youthfulness, toughness, swagger and zest; brilliance which has been to the fore these last three days, despite it all.

Last night they drew upon their most prosaic aspects, outfighting and outrunning a willing but callow opponent to win the only trophy to have eluded them. They did not make things better, but they did bring happiness and positivity at a time when happiness and positivity needed to be brought; football is not “the most important of the least important things,” it is the least important of the most important things.

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