But it was not to be. First, the comedy was 5/8ths disappointing; then, on arriving home, the most dispiriting sight to greet any middle-class, over-privileged twankles such as me - apart from the childishly written, cursive, sparkly sign in the local deli saying "Sorry, no handmade focaccia today :(" - the light on my modem was blinking. To quote myself at the time:
OH MY GOD! THE INTERNET IS DOWN!!!!
Which put me in a stanking funk, which in turn got Mr JRME all grumpy in a slight overreaction to my massive overreaction to being deprived from Twitter. And then, as we grimly sat in a filled with silent accusations and grimly stared at David Mitchell grimly staring right back at us, the glorious wave of Lib Dem wins singularly failed to wash over us, and the evening took a turn for the macabre.
No, not really! I was very disheartened to not be able to join in the barracking on Twitter, although I did discover at around 2am that I could access Facebook on my phone, so my thoughts were freed into the internet like the beautiful, evil butterflies they were. Oh, a self-absorption addict! What an attractive quality! And I would have loved to have liveblogged it, but equally, at no point did it occur to me that I could write stuff down and upload it to the internet at a later date. Three point deduction from the brain, there. That puts it in danger of relegation into the Secondary Organ League next season, where it will have to face up to Spleeds United and a resurgent Borussia Monchengladbappendix.
So I would at this point relay what my thoughts were on the election night, but I stayed up till 5am when Evan Harris lost his seat and the tiny little yellow number in the top corner stayed resolutely in the lower double digits while the reds'n'blues cantered away into the dawn and I couldn't really take it any more, and then got up again at 7am when my cat - who, in a moment of hasty jocularity which has backfired massively, we named Dave - marched his Tory paws all over my face in an active demonstration of the new Big Society where cats take control of failing foodgivers and facilitate the efficient transfer of Whiskas into kittymushes. And I've been wired directly into the coverage ever since. Hence: I am a soggy paper towel in the bottom of the sink of the world, getting all tangled up in stuff and floating about and generally not being any sort of use to anyone.
I have just about enough neurons still firing, though, to say... I am not quite as horrified as I thought I would be at the possible prospect of a Conservative government. Firstly, cos it still looks tantalisingly distant; there's always the chance that The Cleggulator will tell Cammers to ram it up the smooth, unbroken cleft where his android buttocks meld together, and not instantly vapourise all the goodwill he's built up over the last two weeks (or maybe he'll go along with a ConLib coalition just to punish us for not voting in the correct proportions across the country to get his seats up...) Secondly, as it wasn't a victory, let alone a landslide, there was a tangible lack in the specific brand of Tory smugness that gets under your skin like invisible mites and makes you want to frantically claw your own scalp off. That, I fear, is still to come.
Wow. I think I'm on about my 15th wind. I've kind of lost count. Still, all to play for as we enter the second day of negotia... zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz