George Kerevan: Knocking on doors is key to keeping politics real

Published on Wednesday 10 March 2010 20:15

FORGET sweating under the hot studio lights as Paxman skewers you. Forget the focus groups and spin doctors. Forget those contrived photo opportunities. Real political campaigning takes place canvassing on the doorstep.

As regular readers know, I'm an SNP candidate in the forthcoming general election. Along with hundreds of other political hopefuls of all parties, I'm busy pounding the pavements and pressing the flesh – though, thankfully, I've avoided kissing babies so far. Mind you, one trusting voter did ask me to keep her child amused while she turned off the cooker.

Of course, canvassing is not supposed to be about conversing with actual voters. Rather, it aims to identify one's core political support (so you can get them to the polls) plus any potential defectors from the opposition parties (whom you intend to woo with carefully crafted target letters). The drill is to ask your questions and move on as quickly as possible.

The minders in all parties frown on the candidate actually speaking to a voter for more than a few milliseconds. There are sound reasons for this. Doorstep political conversions are as rare as hen's teeth. A prolonged attempt by a naive candidate to persuade a reluctant or hostile voter to change their mind is likely to end in harsh words.

There is also an honourable tradition that supporters of the other parties will seek to engage the unwary candidate in prolonged conversation so as to keep him or her from meeting the uncommitted. Candidates are warned sternly not to accept blandishments such a cup of tea – even on a cold January night when one's exposed digits can no longer feel the pen.

I accept these strictures – but only to a degree. Because meeting ordinary voters on their doorstep is enlightening and humbling. Especially if pontificating is your profession, as it is mine, with its built-in danger of becoming self-important. Listening to what normal folk have to say (as opposed to listening to us media types) is a privilege and fun.

My particular constituency is a vast ocean of 38,000 densely packed homes. All human life is there. There was the charming couple with "his and hers" separate widescreen tellies: "It keeps the peace." I've been introduced to the world of gnome collecting – I'm keeping a tally of which garden in Edinburgh East has the most gnomes. And you get used to people coming to the door in various states on undress.

Canvassing in Edinburgh East (and I'm sure it is the same in any constituency) reveals the vast changes that have taken place in how our society lives. There are the endless blocks of rented flats where door after door has no name plate or number – suggesting we have become more isolated from each other, more anonymous, more footloose.

The closed, gated housing block has become a challenge for canvassing. I rang all 25 exterior doorbells in one new Edinburgh East apartment block, yet failed miserably to find anyone at home to open the outside door. (I went back and got in the following evening.)

A candidate soon becomes an expert on the canine voter. I have met every dog – large and small – in the constituency. Some prefer the silent technique. Your first intimation of their existence is when the leaflet you are putting through the letterbox is gripped by something with a hot, foetid breath. Others bark a split second before you press the doorbell. Given that a large percentage of doorbells don't work, this has advantages.

Many doorstep conversations with voters take place while the (human) householder valiantly tries to keep Fido (or else the cat) from making a bid for freedom. You try discussing the finer points of the budget deficit at the same time as man's best friend is attempting to encircle your ankle. After this, Paxman will be a pushover.

Speaking of letterboxes, I'm of the view that they are manufactured by the same folk who design terrorist boobytraps. A candidate is easily recognised by the scars on their knuckles gained from putting newsletters through letterboxes constructed to snap back and trap unwary fingers.

I once took a call on my mobile from my hardworking campaign chair who was anxious to discuss a finer point of detail. He reached me just after a particularly vicious letterbox had eaten the end of my index finger. I stood in the street holding my arm in the vertical position – to staunch the stream of violet blood – while conversing on the matter in hand.

There is no best time to canvass. In the morning you are likely to wake up someone on night shift. On a weekend afternoon, people are watching an important game on television. In the evening they are having tea or bathing the baby. Yet it is surprising just how many people are glad that someone – anyone! – from a political party has bothered to come round.

The present mood on the doorstep is different from anything I have experienced in previous elections. The Westminster expenses scandal has made voters feel jaundiced about politicians. The number of folk saying "you're all the same" or "they only want to line their pockets" has increased sharply. But the alienation goes deeper than that.

One very nice man started stabbing me in the chest, saying "you people". He then apologised and said he knew perfectly well I was not responsible personally. But because no other politician had ever come to his door, he needed to sound off. So for a minute I became the embodiment of You Politicians who say one thing and do another.

Therein lies a lesson. Yes, I have had the odd door slammed in my face. Thankfully such incidents have been few. Most people are happy to open their door to a complete stranger (me) and talk politics. But they want to be listened to, not told what to think by the political class. How do we win back the voter's trust? A few more politicians might try knocking on a few more doors.