On the day of Iran's parliamentary elections, The Economist's correspondent runs into some cynical folks in Tehran:

"I have voted once in 30 years, and that was for the creation of an Islamic Republic" says an old gentleman who deals in real estate. "I'm not going to get [expletive] again."

Driving back to the hotel late at night, my taxi driver is clearly drunk. As we careen along the near-empty expressway, he belts out made-up lyrics to "Old McDonald", ending in a refrain that has something to do with getting a visa to France and drinking viski. Pointing at a billboard of a senior bearded cleric he shouts, "Shaitan!" (Satan) and draws a finger across his throat. Somewhat timidly, I ask in my limited Farsi about the elections. He cackles with laughter, then clutches his head in mock-dismay.