Democracy was, for a time, quite a useful thing. But much like last year’s milk, it has gone seriously off and to catch the merest whiff is a startling affront to the senses. It pains me to say it, but democracy as we knew and loved it is ruined. I speak, of course, of the Victorian State election. In declaring that the democratic process has pretty much run its course, I’m not complaining about who beat who either on an individual or overall basis. Rather, I’m talking about something far more fundamental and important. It’s the very residue that binds communities together, the glue that is at the heart of our social cohesion. I speak, of course, of sausages.
Democracy was, for a time, quite a useful thing. But much like last year’s milk, it has gone seriously off and to catch the merest whiff is a startling affront to the senses. It pains me to say it, but democracy as we knew and loved it is ruined. I speak, of course, of the Victorian State election. In declaring that the democratic process has pretty much run its course, I’m not complaining about who beat who either on an individual or overall basis. Rather, I’m talking about something far more fundamental and important. It’s the very residue that binds communities together, the glue that is at the heart of our social cohesion. I speak, of course, of sausages.
We have compulsory voting. If you don’t turn up to mark your boxes and stuff them through the slot, you’re at risk of being fined. For the most part we, as a people, accept that we must present ourselves at the local primary school to do our duty and play our small part in the broader democratic ballet. But in surrendering our freedom not to vote, we do so on a very specific understanding. If we are to give up our Saturday morning to run the gauntlet through the school gates past a bunch of leaflet wielding political evangelists in order to stand in a line for a good half hour, all we ask in return is that there are sausages to make the whole experience seem worth the trouble.
The sausage sizzle is an essential part of the voting process. Not only does it provide a valuable incentive to vote, it presents primary schools with a fantastic opportunity to raise funds. This, without doubt, is a wonderful thing. Last Saturday, we walked through the sunshine down to the local school gate. Like the ghouls of the Luna Park Ghost Train, frightening people loitered on the footpath shoving pamphlets forward in an act that is best described as ‘reverse begging’. It can’t be a fun job. Indeed, it must be difficult not to take it a little personally when someone strolls up and pointedly takes the materials for someone else’s candidate only. Frankly, it can’t be too enjoyable to offer a ‘How to Vote Card’ to someone like me. When some poor soul representing a party that advocates for the rights of animals proffered an information sheet, I was forced to decline saying only: ‘Too hungry.’ I watched as several adults scaled the fence simply to avoid the ‘How to Vote’ blockade.
The queue stretched right through the schoolyard. As we took our place, I decided to sniff the political winds and discovered they lacked the unmistakable aroma of barbeque. Instantly, I regretted my decision not to take all the information I could from the gargoyles at the gate. Had any of the candidates been running on a ‘compulsory barbeques at all elections’ platform, that person would surely have won my vote. Worst of all, there was no explanation. Was the lack of sausages part of an elaborate preference swap deal between candidates? Or were the sausages being poured into marginal electorates as part of a small-goods led campaign?
Instead of sausages, we had a seven-year old playing Christmas Carols on the violin. First of all, I admire greatly any child who’s willing to stand up and perform for a bunch of hungry adults. However, the violinist had clearly prepared for a much shorter queue and had confined his repertoire to just three Christmas carols. I enjoyed hearing ‘Jingle Bells’ the first thirty times, but on the thirty first and subsequent occasions, I’ll admit that it began to grate slightly. As he started up for the seventy third time, I was not so much ready to vote as I was ready to tear off my own ears. To make things worse, when I asked him to play what is broadly considered to be the greatest piece of music ever composed for the violin – ‘The Devil Went Down to Georgia’ – he looked at me like I was some kind of idiot. Clearly, students of the violin are not taught to respect the classics.
I don’t object to lining up. But every queue deserves a barbeque. Having been denied my democratic right to chow down, I began to search for answers. Is this primary school so flush with cash that it doesn’t need to raise money? It seems unlikely. Perhaps it’s a case of political correctness gone mad whereby local parents have decided that cooking meat might offend vegetarians. I think I speak for everyone when I say that people will welcome a vegetarian option. In fact, why not sell coffee too? For that matter, stick a fondue fountain between the monkey bars and the slide for all I care. Politics ought to be a smorgasbord.
It must be said that politics and sausages have a lot in common. It’s best not to know how either is made. As I stand in line waiting for my turn, it becomes clear to me that flute-apalooza will never be enough. I cast my vote and yet feel strangely incomplete. And for reasons that I don’t fully comprehend, I feel an almost uncontrollable urge to immediately head to Bunnings where, for $2.50, I can buy a sausage wrapped in bread. As I bite down through the soft white bread and a potent mix of sausage grease and sauce spills into my mouth, I reminded of the words of Plato: ‘Democracy is a charming form of government, full of variety and disorder. Pass the onions.’ Democracy is dead. Long live democracy.