Fulfilling Maureen’s promise

Labour of Love

By Simon Buckley

There are over 11,000 people in the ward I’m campaigning in, which means a lot of sandwiches if I ever invite everyone round for tea. Having such a large number of people also raised the question of how to get in touch with them all. Before I volunteered for this madness I ran a shop. To market that business and inform my customers of what we were doing, I used social media and so it seemed sensible to set up a website, Facebook page and Twitter account to contact the residents.

One of the joyful things about modern communication is that you can happily construct a sleek, public image whilst still sitting in your pyjamas and slurping tea, safely tucked away in your warm, cosy home. And as the fancy logos are created, the nicely composed pictures uploaded and the fine words published, it’s easy to conjure up an imaginary audience of thousands, enthusiastically absorbing the messages put before them.

After several hours of clicking, dragging and dropping, I’d got a basic website, a Facebook page and a Twitter account. Still in my dressing gown, my eyes spinning with too much caffeine, I pressed the key that made everything public. The next day, the first thing I did was check how many “hits”, “likes” and “followers” I’d gained overnight. The blog had 5 views, 3 of which were from my daughter, on Twitter I had 22 followers, mostly Labour colleagues, and on Facebook I had 3 likes. One from my agent, another from my wife and the third from someone who worked in Bolton. I still had over 11,000 people to contact.

The following Saturday I was back out on the streets with my team. It was raining so hard that after a few drenching minutes I was desperately hoping that, out of all the dogs on the estate, one would be a St.Bernard with a brandy barrel. Instead, I got a suspicious Spaniel called Millie who clung to my leg. Trying to hold a sensible conversation with the owner, whilst her beloved pet molested me, made me feel like an act on Britain’s Got Talent.

Sullied, I returned to my mate, Andrew, who was recording the canvass information. Rather too gleefully, he directed me to a house where we could see a big woman through the kitchen window, angrily washing up. I tapped on the door which, after a few seconds, was flung open. The woman glanced at my Labour rosette and stared at me. “Yes?” she said, revealing that her 2 front teeth were missing. I introduced myself and she leant against the door frame, her arms folded. “You’re all the bloody same.” she said.

She then spent the next 20 minutes telling me why she didn’t speak to politicians. During her rant she revealed that, although she’d always been a Labour supporter, she felt the party had abandoned working people. “The Tories are the opposite of Robin Hood, robbing from the poor to give to the rich” she continued “But I’m not going to vote until someone persuades me they can do the job better.” My dry, warm house seemed a long way off as the rain dripped down my nose.

A few houses later I met a woman called Maureen, a widow in her seventies who’d lived on the estate for over forty years. As we neared the end of our conversation she mentioned there was a flickering streetlight outside her bedroom window that kept her awake. She’d complained about it 4 times to the council as the sleepless nights were affecting her health, but nothing had been done. I promised to see what I could do and got her contact details. No internet, just a phone number and an address.

After a couple of hours we’d visited 200 houses and my team had a stack of handwritten notes detailing issues affecting people’s daily lives. One disabled woman had a ramp out of her garden that caused her to tip dangerously into the road. Another couldn’t get to the shops without her daughter’s help in winter, as the reduced bus service was so bad, and a mother was worrying that her son was never going to find a job. Somebody else was outraged that the council had removed the bins used for collecting, as she put it, dog poop.

A few days later I was attending my first ever Labour conference, a world of sharp suits and smartphones. I’d never seen a live leader’s speech before and it felt as choreographed as a Take That concert. Afterwards I went and found a quiet place to think about what my party’s leader had said. I was glad that Ed had spoken about values, it’s exactly what I was hearing on the doorstep. But, as I sat in the warm sunshine, watching a frenzy of tweeting and texting amongst the delegates, all I could think about was Maureen, the rain and her flickering streetlight.