London on election night. You could knife the air, and not just because I live with drug fiends. The BBC have no exit polls. Sky have no exit polls. ‘Neutral’ news sites are sensationalising with vox pop polls and rabid speculation. Selective members of the insomniac left are fretting and snarking at one another, having devoured all online content and gone shocking like the little robot in the Short Circuit films.
It’s the eye of the storm, and I don’t like it; my Jewish half longs to shrug and toss it all in, my Catholic half is waiting for a stained-glass miracle, and my lizard brain just wants to get under its rock. At least, it seems, the votes are being counted under the supervision of nice, normal people who sleep nice, normal hours. They’re starting after breakfast at 9, reckoning that the count will take nine hours; including breaks for elevenses and afternoon tea, we should know in time to douse ourselves in valedictory booze before the pubs shut. I’m going to a party in Hackney with pagans, bisexuals and the variously depraved, and if Johnson wins I may not come back.
Which is a lie, of course. I love this city and would love it even mismanaged by a racist Tory clown; I’m here to stay, and if the GLA lurches to the right I’ll be there among the hundreds standing in its way. Let’s get a good night’s sleep. We might need it.