Lush Places: Political unrest in Dorset’s rural hinterland

WAR has been declared in my village, where political posters have replicated like Mickey Mouse’s broom in the Sorcerer’s Apprentice.

Unlike the urban wasteland of Bridport, reported on for Real West Dorset by The Red Bladder, here in the village of Lush Places (twinned with Moo Moo Land, Royston Vasey and Dibley), the rural hinterland has seen tit-for-tat explosions of blue and orange. Luckily for those who worry about rural aesthetics, these are complimentary colours.

In my household, Mr Grigg and I sit on opposite ends of the fence waiting for it to topple over. We tend to avoid political discussions. But he is now threatening to put up a poster for Oliver Letwin. So I am scrabbling around for a Lib Dem poster in case he actually gets round to it.

I may have to show political balance and put up a Green one and a Labour one as well, although I do draw the line at UKIP, however rousing their music.

By Thursday, my house could look like a beatnik’s guitar case or a Mod’s lapel. Stickers and badges everywhere.

It’s amazing, though, because in the past, people in Lush Places kept their political preferences to themselves. But for the first time, they’re nailing their allegiances very publicly to the mast.

It usually happens when a large Oliver Letwin placard appears in someone’s garden. Overnight, a poster for Sue Farrant goes up next door.

People still smile sweetly to each other as they collect their respective Daily Mails and Guardians from the village shop. But there is an almost Gordon Brownish edge to their fixed grins.

‘Bigot,’ they mutter through gritted teeth.

A few weeks ago a friend accused me of sedition after someone scribbled spectacles, a twirly moustache and horns on his Letwin leaflet. Why the finger was pointed at me, I have no idea.

But that’s nothing to the poster outside Crewkerne railway station, which was well and truly defaced.

The faceless Somerset Tory

Here in Lush Places, we have had a steady stream of political candidates filing through, knocking on doors and posting missives through our letterbox. I had one from David Cameron last week, which was very good of him because he must be extremely busy. I’ve also had a visit from Oliver Letwin, the Lib Dems and a woman I thought was Mrs Greene from the Greens.

The very nice, smiling lady who complimented me on my wallflowers turned out to be a Jehovah’s Witness.

Word must have got out that the village is in need of salvation.

In between times, the candidates have been dodging the UKIP ice cream van as it drives up and down the village like something out of Trumpton, flags-a-waving and military march-a-blaring.

It has all become rather exciting. And it’s hotting up – we’re hosting a party on election night, with guests chosen for their political persuasions.

As this would never have happened a few years ago, when to admit to not voting Tory was akin to revealing you were HIV positive, I’m looking forward to it.

Although I could do with a few suggestions about what food I should put on.

Ah, yes. Revenge. A dish best served cold.