Voter Registration

I’m at the Australian embassy in Ottawa to get my application for a postal vote witnessed. The election is on August 21. It’s compulsory to vote in Australia, but that’s not why I’m going. Maybe it’s something to do with growing up in Northern Ireland, a place where my vote meant nothing until I voted ‘Yes’ to the Good Friday Agreement in 1998. Although I do remember putting my cross on a ballot paper in Hammersmith in 1992. As I recall, Toby had a handful of voter registration cards and distributed them to his friends to try to get the Labour Party guy elected. You didn’t need photo ID in those days. As the man says – vote early and vote often.

All of my years in Dublin I didn’t have a vote at all, not even in the presidential election. Try to imagine how many Quickpicks I bought in Alex’s Lucky Lotto Shop in the mistaken belief that they would eventually qualify me to vote. I could but dream. However, I didn’t think I missed anything not voting when I lived in Dublin as neither Southern politics nor any Southern politician really ever excited me. I can still see Albert Reynolds’ face, the the Taoiseach, as he stepped into a Temple Bar lift and realised he was trapped with several ragged yet artistic members of his voting public and that there would be no escape from their stares for six slow openings and closings of the lift doors. It was a mix of granite and sheer dread.

I rock up to [arrive at] the Aussie embassy wearing thongs [flip-flops] and a T shirt. Traditional Australian voting dress. The guy behind the glass looks as relaxed as it’s possible to be. No sign of election fever or lines of potential voters pounding the counter and demanding their constitutional right. “Hawyagawin’?” he drawls, punching a key or two on the keyboard to make it look as if he’s doing something useful. His name is Josh (I know because it says so on his name tag).

“Good thanks, Josh [I feel like I’m in Safeways]. Can you have a look at this application for a postal vote?” “Yi, ‘ll give it a squizz mate.” Josh looks at the printed out form for a while and drawls “She’ll be roigh’ mate nahwarreez.” “So can you post the postal vote to the UK where I’ll be at election time?” “Yi mate, yi.” “When?” “Coupla weeks I guess.” “That’s not going to work, is it, it’ll never get to me in time.” “Roight mate yerroight the’. Maybe yeh wanna rock up to the Embassy in Lonnon.” “You been there, Josh?” “Nah mate, nah.”

Just then the phone rings and he picks it up, putting the receiver to his ear the wrong way round, George Bush style. “Speak up mate, can’t hear yeh.” The guy on the other end of the phone is asking about a visa. Luckily Josh has a card with a number printed on it to read out to him, asking him to call someone else to talk about it. There are a lot of ‘yi’s’ and ‘nah’s’. During the call Josh pecks at the keyboard with a busy forefinger.

‘Sozzmate got rid of him nawaareeeez.” “Josh, can you witness this form for me and I’ll post it now to the UK. It’ll save time and I’ll get the ballot paper in time.” “Juzzaminute mate, I’ll need me glasses.” Josh goes off to look for his glasses. Minutes pass. The clock ticking above the emu and kangaroo crest chimes the half hour. The furled flag by the door begins to look a little older as the afternoon sun disappears from a tiny window high in the wall behind the computers and I am left in the glare of ozone-unfriendly strip lighting. One of these computers is a real beige original – surely a museum piece. Poor old Josh’s screen isn’t much better. It’s tiny, with green numerals in rows and a flashing cursor.

Eventually Josh returns and has a squizz at the form, looking at it like it’s the first one he’s seen. “Nah mate, nah. Can’t witness it for you, nah.” “But you work in the Embassy?” “Yi mate, yi.” “Can you find someone who can?” “Ah’ll ask Sheila” (I kid you not). Sheila arrives and she’s able to witness the form for me. Josh looks on proudly as she scrawls an unreadable signature at the bottom of the official piece of paper which is covered in printed subclauses and caveats to try to ensure the security of the citizen’s right to vote and the sanctity of the witness’ identity.

“Can you maybe stamp it with an official stamp, Sheila?” I ask, thinking this might do the trick when it arrives in London. She smiles. “No worries, Andrew. I’m stamp happy today, aren’t I Josh?” Josh smiles, sheepishly. Perhaps I have interrupted some inter-office stamping fantasy roleplay. Sheila takes a deep breath and digs out a stamp from a drawer. Buries it in a red ink pad and obliterates half of the handwriting on the form with an enormous blotched emu’n’kangaroo. It looks great – imagine if Banksy had no art training whatsoever and drew with a felt pen held between his toes whilst both blindfold and drunk.

“Noice,” breathes Josh, approvingly, spectacles off. He rummages and finds me an envelope while Sheila prints off the Australian embassy address in London. They’re a great pair, working tirelessly for democracy.

“Anything to keep Julia in power, eh?” I try, to see if I can get a rise. A breach of protocol, or even a sign of bias one way or the other. They both laugh. “Ever met any of them?” Sheila says “I met Rudd once but he was supposed to come over again – the day after Julia became Prime Minister,” [note who is on first name terms] “You mean just after after she put the knife in his back?” I try. Sadly, no reaction, although the two of them say they were disappointed Julia didn’t come over that day instead of Rudd. Josh pipes up “I met Howard once.” “What was he like?” “Alright I suppose, shook his hand. Yi.” Perhaps Josh’s political memoirs will have to remain on hold for now.

The clock chimes the hour. Since I’ve been here the phone has only rung once. There is no one else around – just Sheila, Josh, the emu, the kangaroo and the flag. A couple of old computers and fizzing neon strip lighting. I’m thinking about the barrage of information from the big mining companies over the past few months, saying that Canada would reap the benefits of a new tax on the multimillion dollar companies That investment would flock from Australia to Canada.

I hate those companies, but maybe they were right. I can’t imagine old Josh and Sheila putting up much resistance. It’s as quiet as Melbourne CBD on Grand Final day.

You’d go a long way to find a cooler couple than Josh and Sheila in an embassy. I liked their style. I like having an Australian passport, and a vote which means something. Now all I’ve got to do is find a post office. “Josh do you know where the nearest post office is?”

“Nah mate, nah.”