The Killer Question

I have often dreamed of glory. Yesterday night I finally had an opportunity to win it.

I was set to ask a question in the BBC Regional Election debate in Birmingham Town Hall.
"If elected, how would you and your party treat the Christian community in the future?"It was to be a moment of glory. I'd dreamed about such things. Along with the recurring 'meeting someone famous and getting an interview with them' dream, this one was that I would be questioning politicians with a killer question. I imagined my question would galvanise the election debate, making it more interesting, it would be speaking up for Christians in the UK, securing possible promises for the future and probably it would herald in a revival.

Before the debate I had some spare time so I went to Birmingham Museum and Art Gallery to look at my favourite piece of art there. It is a stained glass window depicting David playing the harp to a tormented King Saul. Above David a stained glass angel subdues a stained glass demon. 'There are unseen forces at work today' I thought to myself.

I was going to be a hero, like David. The politicians were like a three headed Goliath, like Cerberus at the gates of Hades, like a multi headed hydra, like...you get the idea. I had a sling and shot in the form of my question.

In percentage terms my motivation was say 50% fame and glory for me, 40% trying to impress my wife and 10% caring about any answer. But who cares about pure motives? People ask all kinds of questions for all sorts of reasons.

At this point I confess I read my horoscope (which I rarely do). It was in the Metro and read: 'Cancer: If you want to know the answer to any questions at this time, then do yourself a favour and ask yourself, not others.'
So, after that, I felt more like King Saul consulting the witch of Endor just before a big battle.

In the town hall waiting room I mentally prepared myself for the attack. Finally we were led into the town hall proper, which had been converted into a makeshift studio by the BBC. The politicians strode forward to take their seats. Liam Byrne, I'm sure, whispered something about feeding me to his gods, but I may have imagined that. Labour's Liam Byrne, Tory Caroline Spelman and Lib Dem John Hemming were perhaps not political giants, but that night, one way or the other, they were giants in my head.

The 100 strong crowd was warmed up with the immortal line:
"If anybody wants to spontaneously applaud please feel free to do so."
Then filming began.

Nightmare scenario! The questioners had all been pre-selected by the BBC! The questions had all been verified and checked by them. The agenda had already been set. That question which I had emailed back to the BBC a couple of weeks before had already been thrown into some bin somewhere.

And so the debate began with discussion on whether the lib dems could now win the election following Nick Clegg's TV debate success. Then came a question on local service manufacture. Then a question on immigration where a BNP spokesman ranted to us all, supported by his audience plant (or weed). Then the guy sitting next to me decided to heckle.
"Bigot! Nazi! Fascist!"
'Could I heckle my question in now really quickly?' I thought frantically.
But it was all over before I knew it.

In the end, thwarted at my crushed dream, I decided to go up and meet Nick Owen, the journalist/presenter who was hosting the evening.
"Hi, I'll probably never meet you again. I'm a trained journalist but have kind of fallen out of the whole thing for a while - how did you get your big break in journalism?"
"I just kind of fell into it?" he answered.
I didn't even ask him for an interview (someone is bound to be interested in an interview with Nick Owen). Two crushed dreams in one night.

So when I got back later that night and watched the debate on TV (it could never be live, of course), I saw myself for a brief moment in the audience. It was a strange kind of glory.

So here's to all those questions that never get asked, the questions which are intimidated into silence by all kinds of giants. The questions which are talked over, unheard or simply unspoken. They are still there. And despite it all, no-one can stop the dreaming. Although they can crush them for a while.

2010 Election

Today I wrote off to change my address for the electoral register. There are pros and cons to doing this. I had a month or so when the Government didn't know where I lived and I took a perverse, twisted pleasure in this fact. I had to face the truth that it was probably going to be the last time that this was ever going to be the case. But, it was good while it lasted...

Over the next few months MP's will crank into action once again, doing what they love to do. There will be arguments on whether Britain is broken or not broken (even if 'broken' is a misdiagnosis and the country is merely sick).

It doesn't matter, because this year we will have the treat of seeing our political leaders in TV debates. It is vaguely exciting - all those college lectures on US presidents winning and losing elections simply because they sweated a little or hadn't shaved properly will be more meaningful to me.

Sadly, 16-18 year olds will still not be able to vote. But don't worry young people, I'm sure that the Conservatives will be keen to tell you that you not being able to vote is your responsibility.

It isn't even as if Labour have been that nanny-esque that they have not been placing all the responsibility on individuals as it is. Didn't they make up the word 'meritocracy'? Haven't they pressed and pressed for single mothers and the mentally ill to find work whether they like it or not? But politicians set the agenda too often and now it is all about personal responsibility vs nanny state or broken society vs non-broken society or Gordon Brown stammering a little too much in a TV debate.

But as someone who remembers what it used to be like under a Tory Government there is no way I will be voting for them either. I would rather die (which, I'm sure they would say is my responsibility).