ELECTION night looms and every politics junkie is planning an all-nighter of intoxicants punctuated with celebration as Tories lose their seats. This is your timeline:
10pm: Exit poll showing Conservatives reduced to double figures. Nadine Dorries splutters some shite about Boris on Channel 4 while you drink long and lustily.
11pm: Pathetic north-east seats that pride themselves on speedily counting votes turn in their predictable results. Pause for reflection, as you open a third bottle of wine, on their empty lives.
12pm-3am: Everyone else has gone to bed. A few boring results trickle in. The pundits go over the same speculation again and again as though a monarch has died or some bollocks. Punctuate drinks with spliffs and the befuddled hours will fly by.
3am: Shit gets real. Switch to hard liquor so you can drain your glass triumphantly for every Tory you’ve heard of who loses their seat. Urinate copiously and contemptuously in the garden for Farage’s Clacton win.
4am: By now you should be shouting loudly and incoherently and have abandoned your glass for the bottle. Scream in delight when Hunt loses his seat. Roar in the garden if Sunak loses his. Smash windows if Rees-Mogg is toppled.
5am-7am: The scope of Labour’s landslide should now be clear to everyone you’ve woken up, while remaining opaque to you because your eyes cannot focus and you keep losing time. ‘Have you seen it?’ you ask on every single return to consciousness. Yes. They have.
7am: A new government is announced. You’re out cold and miss the historical bit.
4pm: Wake, horrendously hungover, and your first act in the brave new dawn of a marginally centrist regime is to be sick. Your disillusionment with Starmer begins here.
