Duncan Hamilton: My father would be appalled, but I will not vote for any of these self-serving politicians

He regarded voting as a solemnly moral and democratic duty. "In some countries," he explained, spinning my child's globe with his thick forefinger and pointing with contempt at the spread of the Soviet Union, "you aren't given the choice."

What followed was something I recognise in retrospect as the political equivalent of a father and son talk about the "birds and the bees" – an unvarnished explanation of where ballots come from and why voting is a privilege. It spanned the rotten boroughs of the 18th century, the suffragettes, the abomination of apartheid and a tour of the world's most repressive regimes, circa 1970.

By the end of this history lesson – delivered with an evangelical zeal – I was in no doubt about the reasons why my father always voted and why, as soon as I was old enough, I would always vote too. I never envisaged a scenario in which I would make a conscious decision not to vote.

Until now.

In this election, I will be among the conscientious objectors. I will make my mark with silence rather than a stubby pencil.

Were he still alive (he died on the morning John Major called the 1997 election), I know my father would be incredulous and appalled at my decision; and I know, too, precisely the phrases he'd use to try to convince me to change my mind. He'd say, with total justification, that in the tightest of contests every vote is a thing of value. And he'd emphasise the precious nature of my own because I live in a "marginal" constituency; Shipley, as you ask.

However logical his arguments, I'd counter them with two of my own. The first is governed by the gut. I believe ignoring the politicians entirely on May 6 is the most effective way of persuading them to change profoundly. To vote for any candidate would imply I had tacitly forgotten that the Parliament so recently dissolved reeked more than London's Great Stink of 1858.

It doesn't only rank as the most amoral, arrogantly avaricious and self-servingly corrupt Parliament in living memory. It also serves as an example that each party – irrespective of colour or stripe – regards the electorate as essentially pliable, gullible and boneheaded.

To judge from the campaigns so far – embracing patronising soundbites and posters, stagey stump speeches and choreographed walkabouts – the average politician strikes me as certain that nothing more than a smattering of flattery and a sprinkle of contrition is necessary to restore public trust and Parliament's dignity.

But I fear that the pledges of reform will never quite expunge the worst elements of excess.

Worse still – and this is the second of my reasons not to vote – the parties seem to believe that all those tedious and hackneyed promises

about jam tomorrow and a few wishy-washy ideas and vague

generalisations will be viewed as game-changing policies.

My father was never dewy-eyed about politics. He didn't considered those who practised it to be entirely virtuous or altruistic. He and his generation were nonetheless convinced that voting would change something; and that it was possible to influence the political weather by participating even minutely in the process of its creation.

After living through 18 years of my adult life under the Conservatives, and then another 13 with Labour, I know it is a chimera. Or, at least, no longer as true as it used to be.

If you doubt it, consider the following:

We still set targets for secondary schools while pupils leave primary education unable to read or write. We still lack a fully co-ordinated transport system; the structure of what we do possess is creaking in some places and decrepit in others. We still have no grand plan to deal with an ageing population and the pension catastrophe. We still have a health service which cannot satisfactorily cope with demand and medical advancement. We still have a judicial system in which the rights of criminals are too frequently given preference over the concerns of victims. And we still can't build enough homes – or create sufficient jobs – to satisfy a growing and transient population. In fact, we can't even guarantee each community a post office.

I don't remember voting for any of the above. Odd, isn't it though, how there is always a discrepancy between what politicians say they will do and what is actually done?

It stems from a failure of imagination and will. It is perpetuated by one inadequate government after another in the haughty belief that voters will stoically tolerate being short-changed time and again.

"Nothing will come of nothing," said Shakespeare. But not voting – what I call "the silent scream" – is the only option left to me. I confess it is a sign of impotent rage and total disillusionment. But if the turnout is abysmally low, the politicians just might be forced to re-engage with us more honestly and in new, constructive ways that aren't dictated by tribal dogma.

I dearly hope my father – and my grandfathers – can see some merit in my method and motives.

Duncan Hamilton is a bestelling author, whose books on Brian Clough, Harold Larwood and JM Kilburn have been multiple award-winners. He is a former deputy editor of the Yorkshire Post.