Election for Commander Of the Soldiers(IC|open|MT)

[Saranidia]

After the death of Sikandar Khan in battle his expressed wishes were carried by having the ordinary citizens elect a new Military and Political leader.

The main candidates are

George Arthur Wellington-Chief of Army Staff
Politics: centre-left
Pro: genuinely humanitarian intervention, a welfare state, a 2 State solution,economic regulation
, Raja Shehadah
Neutral: the Sikandar regime, legalisation of marijuana(although he thinks laws should be followed and wouldn’t touch the stuff himself), , alcohol
Anti: communism, neoliberalism, the Iraq war, one State solution, israel, the far right,
Censorship of the far right, Hamas, sexism

Michael the Lionhearted
Politics: left
Pro: genuinely humanitarian intervention, the Sikandar regime, a welfare state, a 2 State solution,economic regulation
, Raja Shehadeh
Anti: communism, neoliberalism, the Iraq war, one State solution, israel, the far right,
Censorship of the far right,antifa, sexism, drama queens/kings.
(Recently) Dawud Khan, Chief Of Federal Police
Politics: left except right in law and order
Pro: the Sikandar regime, humanitarianism, women’s rights, Islam,Dubai, Islam, Christianity,
Curb your enthusiasm, Al Jazeera, antifa
Anti: communism, neoliberalism, the Iraq war, one State solution, israel, the far right, sexism, drama queens/kings, fascism

[Tinhampton]

To those of us not called Stephanie Sweeney or Zack Pierce, it should be clear as night and day that Julia Atherton should never have had been given her marching orders in Tinhampton's win-at-all-costs final-day matchup against Cassadaigua. Did she shove Hannah Ranucci? Was Pierce actually smacked around the head as opposed to just faking it? Does Santa Claus have a purple beard?
The last - and, indeed, the first - Tinhamptonian goalkeeper to have been given his marching orders in any game, Josh Smith, had been subjected to that treatment after a somewhat more clear-cut assault on Emma Gryndhout of the nation now known as Saltstead in their opening game of the 70th Cup of Harmony. This time, he was being foisted onto the Miners after the sheer omnishambles of a brawl that had come up a cropper on the field at Concord Heights, barely preparing himself for the savagery to come.
Ranucci was quick in ignoring the scrapping and ever more rapid in placing the ball twelve yards from the goalline - which, if you are a Tinhamptonian goalkeeper, is the worst possible news you can be faced with. Smith, on the other hand, was sluggish to arrive and barely more active as the referee blew the whistle that could well count the Tinhamptonian qualifier run over. He had been dropped almost immediately after the men in brown had slumped to a shock loss at Oscioru...
...but little did he know that the same fate would meet him again after shipping that one. Five minutes later and a Martin strike from the edge of the box - the little one - made it 2-0 to Cassadaigua and gave Tinhampton the challenge of scoring three in eighty seconds to somehow pip them to what would ultimately be a playoff match against fucking Acronius, for fuck's sake. That was never going to happen. Not in a million years of Sundays, or Mondays, or humiliating Tinhamptonian failures to qualify for the World Cup, would that ever occur.
Did Michael Young's belated and surely unintentional consolation provide the Miners with any more comfort? Did it fuck. Qualification was neither expected nor at all set as a condition for any serious Tinhamptonians, although Clive Turnbull certainly came out the winner when he chose to depart, ironically meaning to take one Joshua Smith with him. That was only partially the reason why silence overcame the away dressing room on that fateful night in the Dagan capital. The main reason was because Julia fucking Atherton had allegedly screwed up in front of a crowd balanced 150-to-1 in favour of the home side and absolutely baying for blood, thereby costing her nation the chance to secure at least a respectable point, if not a "shock" winner... and making at least somebody very, very angry. Fucking chokers.
"You FUCKING CHOKERS! Why anybody would choose to piss up so horrible in front of such an egregriously unbiased crowd I don't know, but we had no less than two of you do it!" When Ian Jones, newly-relegated substitute and long-time unofficial deity of Tinhamptonian football, goes on such a comprehensive rampage. "Julia, Aihlo - you're safe for now, I can reassure you, but I need to warn every fucking soul in this room that their posts are under threat! Bastards... irrefutably ignorant BASTARDS! I am fucking sick of this team, and let me tell everybody here that I am leaving the team if we don't make it to the Cup of Harmony knockout stages!" With words like that coming out, there is absolutely no need for additional superfluous commentary on his manner of delivery.
More nothingness swept over the lockers before manager Rachel Coltfield chimed in with her, more official word on things. "I will not remove anybody from this team," she said calmly... "unless you have been a poorly-performing fan or reserve. Every one of the MegaLeague players, whether or not you were sent off today, can remain here. Ian Jones can remain here. Priscilla Evans can remain here. I'll need to have a word with the rest of you - except for you, Mr Smith, your place in this team is no longer viable after the regrettable... incidents I saw in stoppage time. That is a given; everything else is up in the air."
Disappointed? Saddened? Mildly annoyed? None of those words could reasonably described Smith's reaction to the annihilation at the Concord Heights Stadium that he had not only witnessed but directly abetted. As the squad returned to Tinhampton to be welcomed by extremely angry denizens and a barrage of Molotovs, most of the squad - and, indeed, the two-hundred and twenty-three players in the Tinhampton Megaleague not currently in it - pondered their places in the grand scheme of things for the next few days, whilst hoping that the Football Association's final 23 would have their name scrawled on it in some place or another. Smith, however, simply pondered his future. He returned to a city that hated his guts.
A city that hated his guts. He turned on the TV a few hours later to find his inability to deal with simple penalties from Ranucci and six-yard tap-ins from Martin not only displayed but also hammered into the malleable brains of the Tinhamptonian youth as a lesson in how not to deal with penalties. The Tinhamptonian youth. Atherton was 24 - Margaret knows how she got a starting lineup position in the first place - Elliott was 27, even flipping Tealeala noVenaxali (who was Gladom Newion, not even Tinhamptonian) was 29, but Smith was some ten years older than that. He knew his days were coming to an end on the grandest stage of all. Not even that, it was a stage that nobody hailing from Tinhampton had ever reached.
How could he possibly bail out of this complete and utter trainwreck without having to be known as a Tinhamptonian? Next up on the TBS News was a segment referring in turn to the death of Sikandar Khan and the election of the Commander of the Soldiers, not the only thing he knew was being tagged on as an afterthought but willingly smacked in its place solely for some sort of heritage or posterity or whatever the cool kids wanted to call it these days. Nothing too graphic, although what followed could hardly rock these crowds, left or right.
You just couldn't tell the difference. Yes to the welfare state, yes to "peace in Palestine" and "humanitarian intervention" yet somehow no to Israel, yes to a highly regulated market, no to either the far-left nor the far-right - which candidate's policies are these? Both, it turns out. At least both of the ones the world was aware of. Smith was not outright panicking, but at once his newfound concerns about the Near East were piling onto the other, much more genuine and serious outright panic that had rushed through his system for the past day or two. He had to do something, surely? Something like... I don't know, fling an application request of some description in the general direction of the Saranidian Passport Office and eventually Army in a secretive and last-ditch attempt to interfere with the ballot?
"My name is Wasim Abdullah," the letter began, "and I was born on the 23rd of May 1999."

[Knessniet]

There is no right-wing candidate. So we have no business here.

[Saranidia]

So far Dawud Khan is in the lead
Followed by Michael The Lionhearted and then by George Wellington
after that by left-wing, pro-Sikandar minor candidates and after that centre-left, pro Sikandar minor candidates. After that there are a few centre right minor candidates

[Saranidia]

There is no right-wing candidate. So we have no business here.

There are centre-right minor candidates. I will give you a few examples
Colonel Khaled Mahmoud
Pro: austerity, military first policy, “speak softly and carry a big stick”, Islam, law and order,
Rule of law, democracy

Anti: crimes against humanity, sexual violence, apartheid, the new Israeli regime.


Neutral: WA

[Saranidia]

Commander Of the Soldiers Dawud Khan is elected.

[Tinhampton]

OOC: Erm... that Dawud Khan?

[Saranidia]

OOC: Erm... that Dawud Khan?

OOC no dawud is the Arabic/Islamic form of David and Khan is a common Pakistani surname

[Saranidia]

Offices and incumbents
Commander of the Soldiers Dawud Khan

Chief of Army Staff and of Federal Police George Arthur Wellington


Admiral of the Navy and Minister Of Maritime Trade Michael The Lionheart

[Saranidia]

The leader is currently hiding in a bunker in case of nuclear war.

[Saranidia]

To those of us not called Stephanie Sweeney or Zack Pierce, it should be clear as night and day that Julia Atherton should never have had been given her marching orders in Tinhampton's win-at-all-costs final-day matchup against Cassadaigua. Did she shove Hannah Ranucci? Was Pierce actually smacked around the head as opposed to just faking it? Does Santa Claus have a purple beard?
The last - and, indeed, the first - Tinhamptonian goalkeeper to have been given his marching orders in any game, Josh Smith, had been subjected to that treatment after a somewhat more clear-cut assault on Emma Gryndhout of the nation now known as Saltstead in their opening game of the 70th Cup of Harmony. This time, he was being foisted onto the Miners after the sheer omnishambles of a brawl that had come up a cropper on the field at Concord Heights, barely preparing himself for the savagery to come.
Ranucci was quick in ignoring the scrapping and ever more rapid in placing the ball twelve yards from the goalline - which, if you are a Tinhamptonian goalkeeper, is the worst possible news you can be faced with. Smith, on the other hand, was sluggish to arrive and barely more active as the referee blew the whistle that could well count the Tinhamptonian qualifier run over. He had been dropped almost immediately after the men in brown had slumped to a shock loss at Oscioru...
...but little did he know that the same fate would meet him again after shipping that one. Five minutes later and a Martin strike from the edge of the box - the little one - made it 2-0 to Cassadaigua and gave Tinhampton the challenge of scoring three in eighty seconds to somehow pip them to what would ultimately be a playoff match against fucking Acronius, for fuck's sake. That was never going to happen. Not in a million years of Sundays, or Mondays, or humiliating Tinhamptonian failures to qualify for the World Cup, would that ever occur.
Did Michael Young's belated and surely unintentional consolation provide the Miners with any more comfort? Did it fuck. Qualification was neither expected nor at all set as a condition for any serious Tinhamptonians, although Clive Turnbull certainly came out the winner when he chose to depart, ironically meaning to take one Joshua Smith with him. That was only partially the reason why silence overcame the away dressing room on that fateful night in the Dagan capital. The main reason was because Julia fucking Atherton had allegedly screwed up in front of a crowd balanced 150-to-1 in favour of the home side and absolutely baying for blood, thereby costing her nation the chance to secure at least a respectable point, if not a "shock" winner... and making at least somebody very, very angry. Fucking chokers.
"You FUCKING CHOKERS! Why anybody would choose to piss up so horrible in front of such an egregriously unbiased crowd I don't know, but we had no less than two of you do it!" When Ian Jones, newly-relegated substitute and long-time unofficial deity of Tinhamptonian football, goes on such a comprehensive rampage. "Julia, Aihlo - you're safe for now, I can reassure you, but I need to warn every fucking soul in this room that their posts are under threat! Bastards... irrefutably ignorant BASTARDS! I am fucking sick of this team, and let me tell everybody here that I am leaving the team if we don't make it to the Cup of Harmony knockout stages!" With words like that coming out, there is absolutely no need for additional superfluous commentary on his manner of delivery.
More nothingness swept over the lockers before manager Rachel Coltfield chimed in with her, more official word on things. "I will not remove anybody from this team," she said calmly... "unless you have been a poorly-performing fan or reserve. Every one of the MegaLeague players, whether or not you were sent off today, can remain here. Ian Jones can remain here. Priscilla Evans can remain here. I'll need to have a word with the rest of you - except for you, Mr Smith, your place in this team is no longer viable after the regrettable... incidents I saw in stoppage time. That is a given; everything else is up in the air."
Disappointed? Saddened? Mildly annoyed? None of those words could reasonably described Smith's reaction to the annihilation at the Concord Heights Stadium that he had not only witnessed but directly abetted. As the squad returned to Tinhampton to be welcomed by extremely angry denizens and a barrage of Molotovs, most of the squad - and, indeed, the two-hundred and twenty-three players in the Tinhampton Megaleague not currently in it - pondered their places in the grand scheme of things for the next few days, whilst hoping that the Football Association's final 23 would have their name scrawled on it in some place or another. Smith, however, simply pondered his future. He returned to a city that hated his guts.
A city that hated his guts. He turned on the TV a few hours later to find his inability to deal with simple penalties from Ranucci and six-yard tap-ins from Martin not only displayed but also hammered into the malleable brains of the Tinhamptonian youth as a lesson in how not to deal with penalties. The Tinhamptonian youth. Atherton was 24 - Margaret knows how she got a starting lineup position in the first place - Elliott was 27, even flipping Tealeala noVenaxali (who was Gladom Newion, not even Tinhamptonian) was 29, but Smith was some ten years older than that. He knew his days were coming to an end on the grandest stage of all. Not even that, it was a stage that nobody hailing from Tinhampton had ever reached.
How could he possibly bail out of this complete and utter trainwreck without having to be known as a Tinhamptonian? Next up on the TBS News was a segment referring in turn to the death of Sikandar Khan and the election of the Commander of the Soldiers, not the only thing he knew was being tagged on as an afterthought but willingly smacked in its place solely for some sort of heritage or posterity or whatever the cool kids wanted to call it these days. Nothing too graphic, although what followed could hardly rock these crowds, left or right.
You just couldn't tell the difference. Yes to the welfare state, yes to "peace in Palestine" and "humanitarian intervention" yet somehow no to Israel, yes to a highly regulated market, no to either the far-left nor the far-right - which candidate's policies are these? Both, it turns out. At least both of the ones the world was aware of. Smith was not outright panicking, but at once his newfound concerns about the Near East were piling onto the other, much more genuine and serious outright panic that had rushed through his system for the past day or two. He had to do something, surely? Something like... I don't know, fling an application request of some description in the general direction of the Saranidian Passport Office and eventually Army in a secretive and last-ditch attempt to interfere with the ballot?
"My name is Wasim Abdullah," the letter began, "and I was born on the 23rd of May 1999."

Accepted