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| Election night on TV: Dimbleby battled a fly as rival pollsters traded bitch-slaps and Osborne grinned sharkishly | Election night on TV: Dimbleby battled a fly as rival pollsters traded bitch-slaps and Osborne grinned sharkishly |
| (about 1 month later) | |
| What’s that pithy phrase, composed of equal slabs of sanctimony and breathtaking hypocrisy, that the bookies are so fond of spouting? Ah, yes. I have it. So David Cameron gambled with the country’s future to cosy up to his right wing, and lost; Theresa May gambled to give herself a stronger hand to be ignorantly rude to Europe, and lost; and guys, guys: when the fun stops, stop. Only saying. | What’s that pithy phrase, composed of equal slabs of sanctimony and breathtaking hypocrisy, that the bookies are so fond of spouting? Ah, yes. I have it. So David Cameron gambled with the country’s future to cosy up to his right wing, and lost; Theresa May gambled to give herself a stronger hand to be ignorantly rude to Europe, and lost; and guys, guys: when the fun stops, stop. Only saying. |
| May was right about one thing all along: there was only one poll that counted – the one on 8 June. Just not the one she meant. The fun (for us) began at the first stroke of 10pm, with that joint BBC/Sky/ITV exit poll. As the constitutional and financial implications unfolded, David Dimbleby sounded nearly gleeful as he anticipated another great bloodbath of pollsters’ footshootery. “Boy, oh boy, oh boy, are we going to be hung, drawn and quartered if this is all wrong!” | May was right about one thing all along: there was only one poll that counted – the one on 8 June. Just not the one she meant. The fun (for us) began at the first stroke of 10pm, with that joint BBC/Sky/ITV exit poll. As the constitutional and financial implications unfolded, David Dimbleby sounded nearly gleeful as he anticipated another great bloodbath of pollsters’ footshootery. “Boy, oh boy, oh boy, are we going to be hung, drawn and quartered if this is all wrong!” |
| It wasn’t. And there, by dawn’s early light, was Professor John “Courteous” Curtice, allowing himself a rueful grin of mild self-congratulation from high on the BBC’s gantry. As Juliet had her balcony, John had his gantry, from whence he had been conducting a rather touching long night’s dalliance with Dimbleby below, and also a rather amusing spat with fellow-pollster Peter Kellner. All was sweetness and light, of course, but make no mistake: in the world of these two personable and polite men this was the equivalent of a bitch-slapping wrestle in a tub of Vaseline. | It wasn’t. And there, by dawn’s early light, was Professor John “Courteous” Curtice, allowing himself a rueful grin of mild self-congratulation from high on the BBC’s gantry. As Juliet had her balcony, John had his gantry, from whence he had been conducting a rather touching long night’s dalliance with Dimbleby below, and also a rather amusing spat with fellow-pollster Peter Kellner. All was sweetness and light, of course, but make no mistake: in the world of these two personable and polite men this was the equivalent of a bitch-slapping wrestle in a tub of Vaseline. |
| Dimbleby allowed himself to embrace a certain tetchiness around midnight, muttering grim imprecations into his tie. “Well, once again the sound is abysmal from these places,” he said of Swindon. “We’re meant to be in 2017, not 1917 … it’s absurd,” before wrestling with a fly in the studio, apparently the highlight of many people’s evenings. Quite unaccountably so, because so much stuff was happening elsewhere: the first signs of a Labour comeback in Scotland; the slow flickerings of realisation that the tabloids’ toxins hadn’t hurt Corbyn one bit; George Osborne’s sharkish grin as he tried unsuccessfully to swallow his delight at May’s woes; poor old Cleggy going; the continuing mystery of why broadcasters find Ukip endlessly fascinating when it is now a party wholly devoid both of seats and leader and effectively now comprised of one purple-faced man in a car coat, shouting from a pub. | Dimbleby allowed himself to embrace a certain tetchiness around midnight, muttering grim imprecations into his tie. “Well, once again the sound is abysmal from these places,” he said of Swindon. “We’re meant to be in 2017, not 1917 … it’s absurd,” before wrestling with a fly in the studio, apparently the highlight of many people’s evenings. Quite unaccountably so, because so much stuff was happening elsewhere: the first signs of a Labour comeback in Scotland; the slow flickerings of realisation that the tabloids’ toxins hadn’t hurt Corbyn one bit; George Osborne’s sharkish grin as he tried unsuccessfully to swallow his delight at May’s woes; poor old Cleggy going; the continuing mystery of why broadcasters find Ukip endlessly fascinating when it is now a party wholly devoid both of seats and leader and effectively now comprised of one purple-faced man in a car coat, shouting from a pub. |
| Dimbleby was soon back on suave and sharp form, asking, memorably, “Margaret Beckett, are you still a moron?” (for being one of those who nominated Corbyn for Labour leader), and then counting on his fingers as he rattled through the Tories refusing to appear – “we have been trying to get Boris Johnson to talk, David Davis to talk to us, Philip Hammond” – leaving his fingers up to the camera in a sort-of-accidental but unmistakable V-sign while he intoned, “so senior figures in the Tory party … schtum”. | Dimbleby was soon back on suave and sharp form, asking, memorably, “Margaret Beckett, are you still a moron?” (for being one of those who nominated Corbyn for Labour leader), and then counting on his fingers as he rattled through the Tories refusing to appear – “we have been trying to get Boris Johnson to talk, David Davis to talk to us, Philip Hammond” – leaving his fingers up to the camera in a sort-of-accidental but unmistakable V-sign while he intoned, “so senior figures in the Tory party … schtum”. |
| The BBC, I suspect, triumphed on the night itself, if only through strength in depth. Adam Boulton on Sky always has … heft; Tom Bradby on ITV had a zesty energy, a likable lack of pomp, and Allegra Stratton. But the BBC had Laura Kuenssberg, simply indefatigible, and could call on Andy Marr, Andrew Neil, Huw Edwards, Nick Robinson – though he was uncharacteristically unchivalrous, I felt, towards May at one point. “The look of a woman defeated. Heavily made up, as if she’d been in tears earlier.” | The BBC, I suspect, triumphed on the night itself, if only through strength in depth. Adam Boulton on Sky always has … heft; Tom Bradby on ITV had a zesty energy, a likable lack of pomp, and Allegra Stratton. But the BBC had Laura Kuenssberg, simply indefatigible, and could call on Andy Marr, Andrew Neil, Huw Edwards, Nick Robinson – though he was uncharacteristically unchivalrous, I felt, towards May at one point. “The look of a woman defeated. Heavily made up, as if she’d been in tears earlier.” |
| Any distant flecks of sympathy towards an (arguably) human being quite fled, however, when the time came for her to speak in Downing Street. It was as if the night’s banjoing hadn’t happened, or been someone else’s fault, or in fact happened to someone else. Marr had earlier called it right. “Any chance of not saying anything, she takes it.” Ming Campbell was also on hand, offering: “For a vicar’s daughter, she doesn’t do contrition much, does she?” | Any distant flecks of sympathy towards an (arguably) human being quite fled, however, when the time came for her to speak in Downing Street. It was as if the night’s banjoing hadn’t happened, or been someone else’s fault, or in fact happened to someone else. Marr had earlier called it right. “Any chance of not saying anything, she takes it.” Ming Campbell was also on hand, offering: “For a vicar’s daughter, she doesn’t do contrition much, does she?” |
| She turned towards the black door with that stiff-legged gait eerily suggestive of a video-game avatar (the one you’re not about to select): had that fly from Broadcasting House chosen to settle next inside the hall, the smart money says it would have witnessed the most heartfelt true-blue navvy’s swearing ever uttered from the mouth of a vicar’s daughter. | She turned towards the black door with that stiff-legged gait eerily suggestive of a video-game avatar (the one you’re not about to select): had that fly from Broadcasting House chosen to settle next inside the hall, the smart money says it would have witnessed the most heartfelt true-blue navvy’s swearing ever uttered from the mouth of a vicar’s daughter. |
| As night turned towards day, it became clear we would need serious analysis of the people whom the Maybot was about to so cynically (in a career not notably lacking cynicism) invite into her bed. All networks acquitted themselves proudly, though the DUP’s own website crashed, possibly because the party’s pet creationists think it’s run on steam, or the ghosts of old women knitting, or the revivifying power of intolerance. | As night turned towards day, it became clear we would need serious analysis of the people whom the Maybot was about to so cynically (in a career not notably lacking cynicism) invite into her bed. All networks acquitted themselves proudly, though the DUP’s own website crashed, possibly because the party’s pet creationists think it’s run on steam, or the ghosts of old women knitting, or the revivifying power of intolerance. |
| But there were plenty of pleasures ahead, not least in Kensington, where the seemingly interminable recounts had been delayed because the counters were “tired”. And no wonder, having in their spare time to count all their own money: the average house price in the royal borough is £1.4m. Let’s be clear: Jeremy Corbyn’s party had taken control of the known universe’s most salubrious postcode. | But there were plenty of pleasures ahead, not least in Kensington, where the seemingly interminable recounts had been delayed because the counters were “tired”. And no wonder, having in their spare time to count all their own money: the average house price in the royal borough is £1.4m. Let’s be clear: Jeremy Corbyn’s party had taken control of the known universe’s most salubrious postcode. |
| Then came the ever reliable The Last Leg and its election special, which gloriously allowed Alex Brooker to remark to Richard Osman – gaunt, knackered, still whip-smart – of May: “In 20 years’ time, she’s just going to be one of the answers on Pointless.” | Then came the ever reliable The Last Leg and its election special, which gloriously allowed Alex Brooker to remark to Richard Osman – gaunt, knackered, still whip-smart – of May: “In 20 years’ time, she’s just going to be one of the answers on Pointless.” |
| Twenty whole years? Earlier in the week, indeed, May had made a rod for her own back, telling Julie Etchingham that the “naughtiest” thing she had ever done was run through wheat fields, mildly vexing some farmer; echoes here of that One Show interview when hubby Philip told the world he “quite liked” ties and, sort of, jackets. | Twenty whole years? Earlier in the week, indeed, May had made a rod for her own back, telling Julie Etchingham that the “naughtiest” thing she had ever done was run through wheat fields, mildly vexing some farmer; echoes here of that One Show interview when hubby Philip told the world he “quite liked” ties and, sort of, jackets. |
| By Friday evening, the gobbet of banality about the wheat fields – presumably May had taken the silent executive decision that “selling arms to Saudi Arabia” ruled itself out by warranting a mildly stronger adjective than “naughty” – was trending and meming and leading to many photoshopped crop circles with high, hilarious elements of scatology, and The Last Leg’s Adam Hills, Josh Widdecombe, etc had much fun here. | By Friday evening, the gobbet of banality about the wheat fields – presumably May had taken the silent executive decision that “selling arms to Saudi Arabia” ruled itself out by warranting a mildly stronger adjective than “naughty” – was trending and meming and leading to many photoshopped crop circles with high, hilarious elements of scatology, and The Last Leg’s Adam Hills, Josh Widdecombe, etc had much fun here. |
| But perhaps we, by which I mean mainly me, ought to desist from taking pops at poor May here. She might be my editor by the end of the year. | But perhaps we, by which I mean mainly me, ought to desist from taking pops at poor May here. She might be my editor by the end of the year. |
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