Nights Of Historic Drinking: Elections

There is an election tomorrow apparently. I know there is because of endless chatter and comment which I listen to with general disregard and which I refrain from joining in with through a general disinterest. No, wrong word. I am interested. But only from a distance. I should perhaps concern myself but it is hard to do so. What's the worst that could happen? Britain leaving the EU, unlikely though this might be? What's the point of speculating how it would be? Something like that has never happened, though the consequence would probably be that we end up being Norwegians: treated in the same way, that is. No real change, then.

It's a shame in a way. Election nights were once such fun, even when Labour were being royally shafted at the polls. My own affiliation was never what you might call dogmatic. While friends were warning of the fires of damnation that would ravage the land if Thatcher won, I rather wanted her to win, if only because she was such a preposterous figure of strangled enunciation and unconvincing affectation. She would provide hours of amusement, and she did, though when she was seen addressing a collapsing and divided nation on a dodgy television in a distant land (an island in Greece) in the summer of 1981, I was reminded of those fires. The streets of Britain were burning.

Of course, the hours turned into many, many long years. Far too many. Was it such a surprise? When my red-rosette-wearing chums came into the pub on election night, 1983, an air of quiet optimism hanging over their pints of Fullers, I didn't have the heart to say that Foot didn't have a cat in hell's chance. I didn't need to. It was obvious. Nevertheless, we decamped to one of our number's flats, where ample refreshment would sustain us until first light and where we could play with our own improvised swing-o-meter, as we were also to in 1987 as Kinnock made only partial progress on the road to New Labour.

These were nights of historic drinking. More wakes than real parties, the body of Labour already turning an unlikely blue as the first results ominously stated their swings and the professorial psephologists calculated the final denouement through a mysterious alchemy of turning one result into over 600: the Duckworths and Lewises of election estimation.

Then hope. But no. Why did he do it? Kinnock, that is. Or maybe Sheffield hadn't been as crucial as was made out. I was asked, by a Conservative sort, the wife of a leading local politico who was a mate of Eric Pickles (this was from a time when I lived near Bradford), if my house could be used for a bit of a Tory election-night bash. Bloody cheek. It, the house, may have had its own bar, but I reserved the right to choose those who drank in it. So I did. Oh, Neil. Oh dear.

But 1997 came along. What a glorious, sunny spring morn it was. The park in west London was full of birdsong, the flower beds were blooming, there was a freshness and a newness in the air as I strode towards the polling station, one of the first through the door on that first of May, an appropriate day, some might say. And the second of May was just as wondrous. Hangovers on an industrial scale did not prevent those one encountered in the streets shaking strangers by the hand, embracing them with warmth and smiles. It was if the war had been won.

That was the last one. It was right to go out on a high. All was so disappointing afterwards. How much faith did Blair destroy? How much did he let down those of us who had partied like it already was 1999 on the night of the glorious first?

There have been no more parties because I haven't been there, and so the interest has gradually waned, while the trust had been shattered. A "regular guy"? Oh no he was not. And there will be no party tomorrow. Why would there be? What is there to party for? An election in what is all but a foreign land. Interesting but only somewhat. Besides, there is the disenfranchisement.

It's a shame in a way. That there is nothing to replace those nights. Elections are for observation, not participation. I'm not complaining when it comes to the Spanish election, though I know many do. Maastricht gave us what it did: Euro MPs, of whom we know little and for whom we care even less. Nevertheless, it would be nice to be able to vote, if only because of the mischief value. One more in favour of Sr. Iglesias wouldn't make too much difference, do you think? But it is not to be, and nor will the party night. 

Make Some Noise!

"If you come from Manchester, make some noise! If you come from Liverpool, make some noise! If you come from London, make some noise!" Whether it was Westwood, Trevor Nelson or P-Money, it didn't make any difference. Make some noise! The rallying cry of club time. "If you love Magalluf, make some noise! If you're having a great holiday, make some noise! If you're loving the heat, make some noise!"

Noise. Where would be without it? In some sleepy little village in the island's hinterland probably, surrounded only by the rustling of the bougainvillaea. There again, there would be a damn great Canadair suddenly looming into sound, preparing to dump its watery payload on the latest work of destruction by a pyromaniac, or a group of protesters demonstrating against the Castellano imposition, taking to the nearest dusty lane and smashing the pots and pans of a cacerolada. Or, and even in the sleepiest of villages, there would be the fiesta party, enough noise to waken the dead and unleash the demons with their whirling, fire-cracking tridents.

There is noise and there is noise. The natural Mallorcan noise is that of the Mallorcans themselves. When I first trod the boards as a teenager, my drama teacher took me to a courtyard, made me stand on one side while he was on the other. Pro-ject, he demanded. There is a difference between shouting and projecting, but the Mallorcans have been schooled in what is neither. It is a natural form of communication, known simply as loud.

Noise, you fancy therefore, begets more noise. From the natural state of noise, the addition of the unnatural registers far less than when the natural state is for quiet or for less noise. This unnaturalness is crucial to a Mallorcan summer (and sometimes a Mallorcan winter as well). Fiestas, parties, the endless stream of motos, grunting along the roads, the endless stream of traffic full stop. But rarely is it the case that whole groups of people are cajoled into making some noise, lots of it, over and over again.

The ceaseless, repetitious enjoinment of the audience at the Radio 1Xtra gig at Mallorca Rocks to make some noise on Saturday evening was like the whipping-up of troops into a frenzy prior to battle. The sheer relentlessness of the command was a mesmeric imperative amidst the mesmerism of the constant thump of music.

Make some noise. Away from Magalluf and a couple of hours later, there is noise. It comes from a villa that has been rented out. It is not from the apartment opposite where the Polish workers had been making some noise, a great deal of it, until three the previous morning, culminating in the smashing of bottles as they were discarded in the bottle bank. This hadn't been a noise of which I had been aware, thankfully because it was directed towards the sea and was blocked by the building itself. The villa's noise, though, was heading south and so in the other direction.

There is some noise, some music you can put up with, but seriously, Phil Collins? At gone two in the morning? And to make matters far worse, Phil Collins singing in Spanish. This affront to any possible definition of common courtesy and consideration required action. Make some noise? I did. It wasn't projecting, it was shouting. But I couldn't be heard. Not even by shouting through the open window through which the one-time Genesis drummer was singing his Spanish lament of one more night. One more night of making noise. Una noche más. De ruido. Though why the Germans in the villa had Phil in Spanish, I've no idea.

I don't really hold with this business of resorting to calling the cops, but I was willing to make an exception, thanks to Phil Collins. Plod was on the scene swiftly, but by the time they arrived, the windows had been closed, noise was not being made. I suspected a tip-off had been given by the Poles opposite in a rare moment of fraternity across the Oder-Neisse Line of the road.

It is quite possible that on Saturday night Mallorca registered its highest ever levels of noise. If it didn't, it wasn't for lack of trying. But then noise, and a great deal of it, is inevitable. Noise is summer, summer is noise. Restrictions on building work, sound limiters, terrace curfews. They may all have been designed to cut the noise, but there are always other noises to step up to the plate and replace them.

Make some noise? Easy, no problem, and it doesn't really need a DJ to command it.


Any comments to andrew@thealcudiaguide.com please.