By Michael T Schaper

Ghost voting, I’ve heard it called, when the names of the dead are still registered. It frequently happens in any election, usually by accident or incompetence. But it’s par for the course in the campaign taking place right now, here in this desolate landscape.

If hell is a despotic regime governed by an evil tyrant crueller and worse than any other, and heaven is ruled by a benevolent omnipotent autocrat, then purgatory is the worst possible option in between — a whole level of existence run by a parliament.

And that requires us to choose our representatives. Fortunately or not, there’s no shortage of willing names.

Like so many who find themselves here, your typical politician can’t let go of their previous career once they’re in the afterlife. While the rest of us wander around in the perpetual twilight, unsure of what to do next or how to keep ourselves from going mad, they pull themselves together into groups, factions, or even whole parties.

And they have plenty of time to play at these games. Most of them will find themselves here for quite a while, much longer than the rest of us. Many have made some incredibly bad decisions, and ignored the people they always claimed to be representing. So they have to do some considerable penance whilst the judgement book works out where they end up next.

Luckily, they can keep themselves amused at our expense.

For endless days during each election we are all assailed by the bleating and pleadings of hopeful candidates. Claims that they can make our lot better, although we all know in our despair that none can do so. We are condemned to live in a grey miasma, and to wait without any certainty of redemption. Yet still they insist on promising it. Buffoon wraiths. I would laugh, but there is no place for mirth in this world.

The list of candidates seems unending, with past leaders all vying to be in charge of this miserable world. Many of them are names glorified in the history books. Older Australians fondly remember Bob Moansies and Boo Hawke. The French can vote again for Charles de Ghoul, if they want; the Brits for Winston Churchkill, Maggie Scratcher, or even Pitt the Dead. Conservatives and socialists, Democrats and Republicans, independents, left and right wingers: the list seems endless. 

All are dying, so it seems, to get a ride yet again into one or the other of the two Hearses of Parliament.

Lately there’s even been a new party come onto the scene: The Groans, though most of their members are apparently too young to have yet passed away. I’m keeping an eye on them.

It’s a bit of a diversion to remove the tedium, so they’re tolerated. The days down here are bleak, dun and dull. It’s hard to keep track of time. It slides past so slowly and quietly, everything feels like forever.

Glad relief, then, when voting day finally comes. Some excitement, some interest, emerges in our lost souls as we wonder what the outcome will be. 

We line up dutifully to cast our ballots. Then, as the perpetual dusk gets just that little bit darker, indicating the end of the day, we gather together first to hear the results.

Silence falls. Our head of state, the ghost-general, will appear shortly on the balcony of the building, along with the Spooker of the House, to announce the results.

And who am I hoping for? Well, it’s been almost fifty years since he held the job in the real world, so I reckon Ghost Whitlam deserves a chance at the helm here. Half a century of waiting? It’s Time for some fresh dead blood.

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