From Belfast town by coach I came,
Through darkness, rain, and cold;
At one o'clock on polling day
I reached the streets of old.

A friend stood for the council there,
And help was what he sought;
So, after little sleep at all,
I worked as I was taught.

His stride was stiff when dawn broke clear,
An awkward, tender gait;
The agent asked what caused the limp
Before the opening gate.

I bade him guess the reason why,
And smiling, guess he did;
A quiet truth between the three,
Beneath the morning hid. 

At break of day we knocked the doors
Before the sun was high;
Then to the counting hall we went
As evening drew anigh.

The votes were spread on trestle boards,
The tellers checked each score;
I stood as counting agent there
With pass for hall and door.

A veteran MP swept through,
And shoved me from his way;
As though the count belonged to him,
And he alone might stay.

I sought the Returning Officer:
“Has he a pass?” said I.
“With credentials such as mine,
Or does his rank suffice?”

He checked the lists with care and said,
"His name is nowhere shown."
The famous MP lacked a pass;
The fault was all his own.

The rules applied to great and small,
To veteran and lad;
And so the mighty had to leave,
Though plainly he was mad.

Young, Irish, bolshy, full of nerve,
I watched him leave the door;
While Gerald Kaufman, grand MP,
Could stride inside no more.

The ballots mattered more than rank,
More than a title won;
And thus before my twenty-fourth
A small rebuke was done.

In memory of Neil Trafford

In May 2002, I took the overnight coach from Belfast to Manchester to help re-elect Paul Shannon to the City Council, working alongside our election agent, Neil Trafford.

Later that night at Manchester Town Hall, I served as a counting agent and had the quiet satisfaction of ensuring the statutory rules were upheld when Sir Gerald Kaufman arrived without credentials.

This poem records that campaign and honours Neil—a brilliant campaigner, friend, and wit, still sorely missed.