The speculation in the media is rife. Will Trump accept the results of this Presidential Election? And if he loses, will the Big Lie get bigger? All the conjecture reminded me of my first experience voting. I was 17 and attending an all boys Catholic secondary school in small town Ireland. But what I didn’t realise then is that democracy isn’t always about the destination so much as the journey. Like the best school tours.

It was a snap election. Totally unexpected. That’s because the young men at St Macartan’s College had never previously been trusted with a vote. Up until that year the Principal, a forty cigarettes a day Priest, hand picked well mannered boys with good pedigrees for key roles. Under this archaic system of patronage those considering a vocation to the priesthood were a cert for appointment as were the cream of the live-in boarders. But the times they were a-changing. So one minute we were dozing through a lecture on the Ascension of Jesus to heaven and then suddenly there was a miracle of earthly proportions: we would vote to elect Senior Prefects.

The wizened faced Year Head explained that this “gift of the franchise” was a reward for our flowering maturity as responsible young Catholic men. If there was something actually flowering among my peers it was anarchy and resentment. And possibly armpit bacteria for want of personal hygiene. “Now don’t just go voting for the first ejit* you think of, take this seriously boys,” he said giving us 15 minutes for the shortest election campaign in modern Irish history.

Apathy and cynicism were among the first things Irish students learned back in the 1990’s so despite having long decried the usual coronation, few students were prepared to stand as candidates. But cometh the hour, cometh the acne faced boy. Martin Carthy had excellent credentials as an irritator of teachers par excellence, defier of petty rules and gifted debater. He made many election promises including getting us unrestricted access to the large snooker room and even a joint musical drama with the girls from the convent. There was a sudden rush of hormones and a sense of levitation. One of the lads blacked out but was quickly revived. Someone even used the word “hope”. Crazy times.

The Year Head was dismissive of our choice. “Are you actually planning to elect the hijacker in chief?” This was a glib reference to the “Great Escape”, a day when fifty boys on a school tour convinced the bus driver to take off without any of the supervising teaching staff. Besmirching our candidate overstated Martin’s centrality to that incident but certainly galvanised support firmly behind our nominee. An exit poll put our man as outright winner but a few days later we learned that it’s not the voting that’s democracy; it’s the counting.

There followed the most awkward silence in the Assembly Hall when the newly “elected” Prefects were brought up on stage. The appointees (several of whom hadn’t even stood as candidates) were embarrassed to wear the silver badge and instead slipped it in their pockets. The Year Head persisted with the Big Lie, congratulating the voters for wisdom “beyond young shoulders”. Eyes around the Hall rolled. An unidentified boy hacked something phlegmy up out of his throat (which sounded unbelievably like the word “bullshit”) and proceedings were brought to a swift conclusion. As we scattered for the Friday bus we threw away our naive enthusiasm and reached instead for our tried and tested cynicism and apathy.

Martin’s election wouldn’t have changed much in some respects. For a start the regular meetings and mind numbing chores of a Prefect would have swiftly worn down his mischievous spark. His advocacy to address student grievances or for the keys to the snooker room could easily have been met with sincerity, empty promises and then promptly dumped in the bin. And no, there would have been no sweet scent of girls perfume through the halls of the College. My intuition is that three weeks in and Martin would have been begging to hand back his badge.

Yet the chance to sock it to the Priest would have been therapeutic. We’d have settled for the crowning moment of glory in the Assembly Hall. During the year we’d have had someone to complain to and yes, someone we could genuinely blame. We’d have happily taken that part of the journey. But we were denied. Now, compare the election debacle with the day of the Great Escape on the school bus. The day that every heavenly body aligned.

“Go ahead Driver, the teachers will meet us there,” said someone from down the bus. A few others quickly endorsed the claim and lo and behold, the engine started and off the yellow bus chugged. Grins and smiles all around. But the best was yet to come as Neptune and Jupiter spun into position. The driver, quite blasé to the chaos breaking out behind him, glanced around and earnestly asked, “where’s this place were going anyway?”

Granted we never actually reached our destination (a large and odorous compost manufacturing facility) but the experience itself, looping and weaving through Monaghan’s drumlins was joyous, rambunctious and soul healing. Forget water sports and mountain orienteering. If ever a group of boys needed a bonding experience this was it. The fun we had on the road to nowhere.

It couldn’t happen nowadays of course. Modern technology smothers all embers of fun before they burn brightly. For a start the bus driver’s mobile phone would ring with tart instructions to return to HQ or to use sat nav to go directly to the epicentre of the rotting smell. The only clue to our whereabouts was a scattering of angry phone calls to the College landline detailing unmannerly behaviour across the north of the County. And in this respect mobile phones would certainly have provided photographic evidence. Without doubt someone would have taken a picture of the flank of our yellow chariot adorned with white arses pressed tightly to the windows. “So much moon,” a comrade in cheeks later confided gleefully, “it had to constitute a total eclipse.”

There isn’t a moral here about voting or campaigning. Nor is there a lesson hidden in the folds of a teenage butt crack. But just that the best democracies aren’t great because of the ultimate destination, it’s about the process, involvement and drama. It’s about the journey. And so are the best school tours.

* an ejit / a clown