A lot of that importance they put on the democratic process has rubbed off on me because I love voting; I love the mystery of it and alchemy of it, the way that the base material of a stubby pencil and a bit of paper and a tin box can be turned into the pure gold of policies and decisions at the highest level.

I love the fact that our local community centre (or the school,
or the club) can, by sticking a notice outside, become a place
where democracy happens, where the ordinary person on the street
can make history-altering choices. It moves me even to write about it.

It pains me to announce, then, that I won't be voting in the
local elections on Thursday. It's not that I don't want to: I do want
to, desperately. It's just that I'm like a peasant in the Middle Ages or a woman before the First World War: I'm disenfranchised. What's worse, I'm disenfranchised through my own lackadaiscalness. It's my
own fault.

I'm going to be out on polling day, in the wilds of Worcestershire, with my cartoonist mate Tony Husband doing our Cartoon History of Your Place show in a village hall on the edge of Evesham. So, I did what every voter should do if they want to vote and they can't get down to the booth: I applied for a postal vote. My dear old parents made sure they got their postal votes, even when they were in old peoples' homes towards the end of their lives. I recall my dad's shaky hand forming a dithery cross on the ballot paper as Richard and Judy blared in the background and staff brought in cups of tea.

The application forms came and, after a bit of a delay because I'm a busy chap, I filled them in. There wasn't a return envelope which meant I had to find one and then remember to buy some stamps and that would have put off a less determined voter than me. Not me, though. I'm a determined voter. I stuck the stamp on and put the envelope on top of the microwave and, I'm sorry to say, I forgot about it for a few days.

Well, I was busy: there were columns to write and books to read and Thomas came round so I had to play with him and then I had to go to London and Newark and eat up the rail miles and look out of the train window and then suddenly I remembered the brown rectangle on top of the microwave, and I hoped I wasn't too late and I hoped the form hadn't been microwaved to within an inch of its life.

So I came in fairly late one night and went straight out again to the postbox at the top of our street to post the form, the form that contained my entry to the sacred world of democracy. I realised that there wasn't going to be a collection from the little postbox on the cemetery wall until the following afternoon, but I feel about postboxes like I do about voting: use 'em or lose 'em, and I love the magic
that happens when you stick a birthday card in the box and your auntie in Shetland gets it in time for her birthday.

My letter winged or limped or scuttled its way to the Democracy Office (or whatever its called) at Barnsley Town Hall but because
I'd procrastinated, and played with Thomas, and looked out of the train window, I was too late. A letter came from the council and I was excited because I thought it was the postal voting form but it wasn't: it was a letter telling me I was too late for the postal voting.

My fault, let me emphasise as I beat myself with some old shoelaces; my fault entirely. So now I can't vote and that means I can't complain about anything.

People who don't vote have no say in the matter; I don't care if they go and spoil their ballot paper, they should go out and do it, go out and register something.

I've got to sit on the sidelines now like a grumpy bloke at a
football match whose team are playing very badly but no matter how much he shouts and waves his scarf he can't influence the result in any way at all.

I'll be there next time, though: first at the booth with my bit of paper. Sharpen those stubby pencils!