#billybottle

You know what it day it is! It’s the day we vote. It’s the day when we deliver The Power to Westminster. So here’s the route we’ll be taking and the places we’ll be stopping to play along the way.

We rendezvous with the famed milk float at St Pancras and our first stop will be at King’s Place. From there, we head down to Exmouth Market, Fleet Street, St Pauls Cathedral, the Royal Festival Hall and Roots & Shoots - an inner city eco-training centre in Lambeth.

Finally, at 7pm, we’ll make our arrival at Parliament Square, circling the square seven times in the milk float before we disembark and perform the ritual of Delivering The Power to Westminster.

You know what it day it is! It’s the day when we deliver The Power to Westminster. So here’s the route we’ll be taking and the places we’ll be stopping to play along the way.

We rendezvous with the famed milk float at St Pancras and our first stop will be at King’s Place. From there, we head down to Exmouth Market, Fleet Street, St Pauls Cathedral, the Royal Festival Hall and Roots & Shoots - an inner city eco-training centre in Lambeth.

Finally, at 7pm, we’ll make our arrival at Parliament Square, circling the square seven times in the milk float before we disembark and perform the ritual of Delivering The Power to Westminster.

Here it is, the route for our last day travelling eastwards, Wednesday 6th May... We've made our way from our home on the farm in Devon through all these different worlds and now we're running into the sea. So, before we turn for Westminster, it's time for a little circuit of the other end of England, the Kent coast, the cliffs of Dover, Deal and then the Isle of Thanet - Ramsgate, Broadstairs, Margate - where Nigel Farage is fighting to go to parliament for UKIP. Then we follow the curve of the coast round to Herne Bay and end the day at Whitstable.

Five days of rushing slowly across England, thirty-five railway stations, thirty-five high streets or marketplaces or seafronts – and still there’s more of all of this to come. One song, over and over and over again.

We’re starting to get an inkling of what it might be like to be a politician, making the same stump speech at every stop on an endless itinerary. But we are not trying to convince anyone. If you’re trying to convince anyone, you don’t go out dressed like this.

Each time we get off the train at a new place, we find ourselves sniffing the air, sensing for clues as to what it is like to be getting on with your life in a place like this. And the clothes, the music, the harmless foolishness of our little gang seems to open up a line of contact, so that within twenty seconds people are talking to us about their lives.

In Brighton and Lewes, the air smells green, and then we cross some unmarked threshold and in the next few towns another reality takes over. Listening to the way people talk, we find ourselves starting to understand why they are drawn to UKIP, not because the facts or the arguments add up, but because in this reality it could sound like they make sense.

Repetition is boring. Repetition is endlessly fascinating. Keep repeating something beyond the point where it starts to get slick and sometimes you break through to another level you didn’t know was there. The song is the same in every place and in every place it is different. The events that run into us take us by surprise.

In Trowbridge, we started playing and police came running round the corner. There had been a theft of a piece of meat from a shop. A shopkeeper came running towards us, she thought we were just shouting in the street, shouting like a thief. Well, we were shouting in the street. A few minutes later, Bill was listening to the story of a man who had been homeless for twelve years as he talked about his father’s addiction and how he died. At the end, there would have been no point in words. The two of them stood there in the street, holding each other, crying.

The song is the same in every place, but something changes, grows, deepens. Maybe what we’re doing is charging up the song, like we have to keep charging our phones whenever we get a few minutes near a socket. All of these encounters, conversations, stories are charging up this song we started out with and the song is carrying them.

Tomorrow, we head out east from Canterbury and loop through the constituency of South Thanet, the closest we will have come to any of the big stories of this election. Who knows, maybe we will bump into Nigel Farage and sing for him. (We nearly got to sing for Caroline Lucas in Brighton on Monday night.) That’s a thing about singing for people, you can do it in a way that is nothing like an endorsement and nothing like an attack.

Then, on Thursday, we arrive in Finsbury Park to pick up the milk float and drive it down into the heart of London.

We’re going to deliver The Power to Westminster.

When we started saying that, it was a joke, but as we kept joking about it, the thought deepened on us. We’re still figuring all of this out as we go along, finding out what we’re doing by doing it, but it’s starting to seem like this journey culminates in an ironic ritual: the delivering of The Power to Westminster, to remind the politicians that The Power doesn’t belong to them, not really, not on polling day, or even on any other day.

The Power is loaned to them by the people, and they can hardly dare to acknowledge how grudgingly that loan is made, how overdue the repayments have become.

And here we go with the route for Day 4 of our rolling conversational democratic jam session, Bank Holiday Monday, 4th May... We leave Southampton first thing tomorrow and potter along the south coast to finish the day in Brighton.

When you travel slower, the country gets larger.

Stopping off at so many places along the way, Exeter is a really long way from Newton Abbot, Bristol is a really long way from Exeter. You realise that each of these places is a world, the world of the people who live here and do their best to make life work in the conditions in which they find themselves.

Seeing news clips of the party leaders climbing out of helicopters or stepping off intercity trains, it feels like they are whizzing up and down a different country, a smaller country, a country where most of the places we are visiting don’t matter very much.

Travelling up through Somerset yesterday, we got off the train at Highbridge & Burnham-on-Sea and went looking for a spot to play. At the Boathouse Cafe, we asked where we could find the centre. “Well, this is the centre!” said Denville. And the way he said it, it felt obvious: at this moment, this cafe, this table at which he was sitting, this was the centre, so this was where we were going to play.

A few times over the first two days, we’ve found ourselves playing at cafes like this, and they do feel like centres, places where people come to be human together, to eat breakfast, drink a cup of tea, hang out, talk about what’s going on, acknowledge each other’s existence. It’s like they are centres of power, but a different kind of power to the one that the politicians are fighting for.

Every conversation we have is different. But there are echoes that keep coming back, that keep coming back.

People start off curious and cautious. They see us coming a mile off, the technicolor outfits, the huge #dontjustvote stickers on our instrument cases. Sometimes they recognise us off The Voice.

They want to know what we’re doing, why we’re doing it, and that means we have to keep asking ourselves those questions, figuring out the answers as we go along.

They want to know what we’re selling, what we’re trying to persuade them of, and we tell them really we just want to start conversations, to meet people, to find out what’s going on in this country now, what this election actually means.

When they start talking to us, they usually start with a flat statement, something definitive. “I never vote.” “They’re all the same.” “There’s no point, is there?” But as they realise we’re actually interested, the way they talk changes, something else comes out. You can hear how much they care.

Everyone we meet feels disillusioned, disengaged, disenfranchised. They all feel like they’re not being heard. A lot of them aren’t voting. Yet they also believe that we as people do have power, they just can’t see a route to change that goes through the ballot box.

We’re not pretending we’ve got any answers. We’re definitely not pretending that wearing fluourescent tights and playing a song in the street is a way to change things. But it’s a way in, a way to start meeting people, catching little snatches of a tune that this country is humming under its breath, that nobody’s quite remembered the words to yet.