Eighteen years ago, while I was pacing outside the maternity ward at King’s College Hospital, in London, the power of speech deserted me. I had been mistaken for a doctor and completely failed to question the nurse as she handed me blue stretchy shoe covers and scrubs. Still being referred to as Dr Naden, I was led perplexed to a surgical ward. Flustered and apparently grunting, I was facing an array of bright lights, oxygen tanks and other medical equipment. I was in the right place, it’s just I had neither the training, nor desire to perform a caesarean section.
Twenty minutes later, problem averted but still trembling, I was holding my newly born son. He stared innocently into my teary eyes, oblivious to the nurse jabbing a needle into his chubby thigh. In fact he gave out a chuckle as I tried to make reassuring noises. I’d have high fived him if he’d kept his arms still. It was such a relief to be on the other side and able to speak once more. This, I felt absolutely sure, was the dawn of a new era. Even if I could never claim to be a doctor, I had a sense that hope and expectation were also about to be delivered in a new pain-free existence.
Because that same day, 2 May, 1997, after a generation of Thatcher and seemingly endless Tory rule, Tony Blair swept to power for the first time with his glossy smile and transfixed me with his swagger. At that moment, consumed by my own fatherly bonhomie, he seemed to embody a brighter future, one that would lead my new babe to the promised land.
I so wanted to believe that a guy with dark curly hair who played rock guitar at university could lead the country. At that moment he should have plugged in his Fender and played Stairway to Heaven.
The witty cartoonist Matt created the perfect newspaper sketch for the moment. It showed a baby in the arms of his dad standing next to a bed complete with an exhausted and beleaguered mum. Above her head is the sign “Maternity Ward” and the caption reads: “It’s amazing to think he’s only known a Labour government.” It felt that big a deal. After 18 years of Conservatism, my life and the nation was finally on the brink of change – all embodied by my child. Much to my delight, a friend tracked Matt down and bought and framed the original sketch as a gift.
Over the years, Matt has continued to capture the zeitgeist, but I no longer want to be reminded of Tony Blair. The consummate politician he may be, but it’s like when your mates start telling you stuff that isn’t true. You know what happened because you were there, but because you remember it rather differently you get fed up being taken for a mug. Once trust goes, a friendship is never the same again. Things drift and then one day you realise you haven’t seen eye to eye for years.
Now 18 years after New Labour’s victory, in the flash of an eye, my election day son is about to come of age – and with five days to spare will become one of the youngest voters at the next election.
He’s endured five long years of coalition government. It’s probably about all he remembers in forming his perceptions of politics. So in the build up to this year’s general election, I’ve started dropping extra hints about my political leanings, although I’m sure he knows them full well.
Yet, and here’s the rub, there’s a political detachment surrounding him and his friends – one even expressed the belief they’d have to pay £50 for the privilege of voting. Politics seems as interesting to them as the vitamin content of peas. They know it keeps parents quiet agreeing to have the little green blighters on the plate, but they’ll only eat them when forced. Politics appears bland, boring, and, worst of all, it leaves a nasty taste.
As we wash the dishes together, grabbing the opportunity for a chat, I mention the P word. He shrugs and says from what he can see there’s no difference between the parties. Why get involved when nothing is going to change? It’s not something that will affect the way he lives. He cites Clegg as an example of a man who says one thing, then does another. Why believe in someone when they give empty promises? He doesn’t want smoke blown up his arse.
In some ways I don’t blame him. A greyness has descended upon politicians, as they spin their prepared answers like linguistic linguine. The middle ground has become the hallowed ground, all things to all men. They argue over the same slice of pie and maybe this pie is past its sell-by date.I place the spoons in their slots as he retires to his bedroom. Hmmm.
I remember when I was 18 and living in Australia, voting was compulsory (and still is). I marched in youthful exuberance to ban the bomb and demand change. It was a time to influence and make my mark on the world, a time for passion, for tub thumping and pushing aside the old ideals. When the trade unions said all out, that’s what happened. When the Australian Prime Minister Gough Whitlam was sacked by the Queen’s representative, it seemed like a valid reason to get angry. Really angry. Democracy was being invaded. I was part of the generation that would change the world. When my dad told me he voted Conservative, I made sure I put my tick by Labour. Cor, check me, I knew how to rebel!
I lived through the three-day week, the miners’ strikes and sugar shortages. I studied for my exams by candlelight, and lit a paraffin heater to keep my bedroom warm before getting up to do my paper round. I knew no different. It was how it was. I certainly don’t feel any sense of entitlement because of harder times. My parents had it tougher. But it instilled in me a feeling and desire for change and a fairer world. And a belief I could, or had to, do something about it. Even if that only means putting a tick in a box every few years.
At my son’s age maybe I cast my vote because I felt a certain way, rather than fully understood the rhetoric. I had a gut reaction, an idealism that came with hearing and seeing solutions for the first time. And then when I saw my son on 2 May 1997, I was convinced the world was to become a better place, because I felt so happy. I may have been misguided at times, but I did join in.
I question the sentiment – the youth of today don’t know how lucky they are. Why would they? Each generation feels different from the last. The world changes and we can’t hang on to the past. Yet, perversely, the older I get, the more the past matters. I want my son to understand the power of politics.
Changing tactic, I next ask how his friends will vote. “Like their parents,” he replies. “It’s what they know.”
“It’s important to vote for what you believe,” I reply.
He nods. And although I know this isn’t the time to let the power of speech leave me again, I don’t think standing on my soapbox and haranguing him is quite going to cut it.
“Well, make sure you’re registered,” I say. “That’ll be a start.”
A few moments later, he agrees with a shrug.
The thing is, placing that X in a box we both realise is actually about a whole load more than voting. It represents the culmination of 18 years of upbringing, a rite of passage, a moment to savour – for me as much as him. He will be free to make his own decisions. It’s the moment I pass on the baton and he will no longer be under my wing. As an adult in the privacy of that voting booth, he can choose whoever he wants.
And if he makes his mark only to shut me up, I’ve succeeded.
I really hope he does.
