So Thursday was the General Election that we've all been waiting for. The bloke on the left has been especially looking forward to it, rubbing his hands in glee at the prospect of waltzing into Number 10 on that hallowed Friday after a brief jolly round after the foxes. Unfortunately for him we have a hung parliament instead which means that although the majority of the county liked his smug, posh cake hole there wasn't enough seats in the colour of blue for a full majority. I stayed up to watch this spectacle unfold. Worse than that, I sobered up watching this spectacle unfold. Not a sobering in terms of political disillusionment, a genuine alcohol recovery. This was due to the fact that I got locked out, went to the pub to wait for a house-mate to get back and ended up starting an all night binge because I got too involved in the 20/20 cricket. Good game is was too. Anyway, I got back about 1ish and watched the BBC coverage which was seemingly broadcast from some kind of extravagant James Bond-esque lair. Things got worse than that though. The slightly frantic coverage would skip between a variety of seemingly strange events. Firstly Jeremy Vine has taken the "Swingometer" to a new level and entered the world of Tron with PS1 graphics. Scenarios where he's climbing stairs to compare vote share tallys beg the question "how did they do that?" but also (and more appropriately) "why?". Then there's the horrifying moment where Dimbleby would utter "and now over to Andrew on the boat". Andrew is a man with a wig that defies comprehension and array of guests and dull chatter that make you reach for the shotgun. All the stars were there, from Kirsty Alsopp to Bruce Forsyth. There was the grilling of Lord Ashcroft to brighten things up though which in many ways felt like an alternate more subdued finale of The Devil's Advocate. The man practically drips evil. No wonder he lives abroad, probably found somewhere he can drink the blood of virgins unnoticed. On the whole though there just wasn't enough of Paxman yelling at the video screen like a demented villain making his demands. Those moments were just priceless. Anyway, we've now got a few days to see if Clegg fancies a bedfellow or if we're going to be back down the village hall again. Either way lets enjoy these few days where we technically have no government.
Sunday 9 May 2010
Cameron's March To The Apocalypse
So Thursday was the General Election that we've all been waiting for. The bloke on the left has been especially looking forward to it, rubbing his hands in glee at the prospect of waltzing into Number 10 on that hallowed Friday after a brief jolly round after the foxes. Unfortunately for him we have a hung parliament instead which means that although the majority of the county liked his smug, posh cake hole there wasn't enough seats in the colour of blue for a full majority. I stayed up to watch this spectacle unfold. Worse than that, I sobered up watching this spectacle unfold. Not a sobering in terms of political disillusionment, a genuine alcohol recovery. This was due to the fact that I got locked out, went to the pub to wait for a house-mate to get back and ended up starting an all night binge because I got too involved in the 20/20 cricket. Good game is was too. Anyway, I got back about 1ish and watched the BBC coverage which was seemingly broadcast from some kind of extravagant James Bond-esque lair. Things got worse than that though. The slightly frantic coverage would skip between a variety of seemingly strange events. Firstly Jeremy Vine has taken the "Swingometer" to a new level and entered the world of Tron with PS1 graphics. Scenarios where he's climbing stairs to compare vote share tallys beg the question "how did they do that?" but also (and more appropriately) "why?". Then there's the horrifying moment where Dimbleby would utter "and now over to Andrew on the boat". Andrew is a man with a wig that defies comprehension and array of guests and dull chatter that make you reach for the shotgun. All the stars were there, from Kirsty Alsopp to Bruce Forsyth. There was the grilling of Lord Ashcroft to brighten things up though which in many ways felt like an alternate more subdued finale of The Devil's Advocate. The man practically drips evil. No wonder he lives abroad, probably found somewhere he can drink the blood of virgins unnoticed. On the whole though there just wasn't enough of Paxman yelling at the video screen like a demented villain making his demands. Those moments were just priceless. Anyway, we've now got a few days to see if Clegg fancies a bedfellow or if we're going to be back down the village hall again. Either way lets enjoy these few days where we technically have no government.
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