Nights Of Historic Drinking: Elections

There is an election tomorrow apparently. I know there is because of endless chatter and comment which I listen to with general disregard and which I refrain from joining in with through a general disinterest. No, wrong word. I am interested. But only from a distance. I should perhaps concern myself but it is hard to do so. What's the worst that could happen? Britain leaving the EU, unlikely though this might be? What's the point of speculating how it would be? Something like that has never happened, though the consequence would probably be that we end up being Norwegians: treated in the same way, that is. No real change, then.

It's a shame in a way. Election nights were once such fun, even when Labour were being royally shafted at the polls. My own affiliation was never what you might call dogmatic. While friends were warning of the fires of damnation that would ravage the land if Thatcher won, I rather wanted her to win, if only because she was such a preposterous figure of strangled enunciation and unconvincing affectation. She would provide hours of amusement, and she did, though when she was seen addressing a collapsing and divided nation on a dodgy television in a distant land (an island in Greece) in the summer of 1981, I was reminded of those fires. The streets of Britain were burning.

Of course, the hours turned into many, many long years. Far too many. Was it such a surprise? When my red-rosette-wearing chums came into the pub on election night, 1983, an air of quiet optimism hanging over their pints of Fullers, I didn't have the heart to say that Foot didn't have a cat in hell's chance. I didn't need to. It was obvious. Nevertheless, we decamped to one of our number's flats, where ample refreshment would sustain us until first light and where we could play with our own improvised swing-o-meter, as we were also to in 1987 as Kinnock made only partial progress on the road to New Labour.

These were nights of historic drinking. More wakes than real parties, the body of Labour already turning an unlikely blue as the first results ominously stated their swings and the professorial psephologists calculated the final denouement through a mysterious alchemy of turning one result into over 600: the Duckworths and Lewises of election estimation.

Then hope. But no. Why did he do it? Kinnock, that is. Or maybe Sheffield hadn't been as crucial as was made out. I was asked, by a Conservative sort, the wife of a leading local politico who was a mate of Eric Pickles (this was from a time when I lived near Bradford), if my house could be used for a bit of a Tory election-night bash. Bloody cheek. It, the house, may have had its own bar, but I reserved the right to choose those who drank in it. So I did. Oh, Neil. Oh dear.

But 1997 came along. What a glorious, sunny spring morn it was. The park in west London was full of birdsong, the flower beds were blooming, there was a freshness and a newness in the air as I strode towards the polling station, one of the first through the door on that first of May, an appropriate day, some might say. And the second of May was just as wondrous. Hangovers on an industrial scale did not prevent those one encountered in the streets shaking strangers by the hand, embracing them with warmth and smiles. It was if the war had been won.

That was the last one. It was right to go out on a high. All was so disappointing afterwards. How much faith did Blair destroy? How much did he let down those of us who had partied like it already was 1999 on the night of the glorious first?

There have been no more parties because I haven't been there, and so the interest has gradually waned, while the trust had been shattered. A "regular guy"? Oh no he was not. And there will be no party tomorrow. Why would there be? What is there to party for? An election in what is all but a foreign land. Interesting but only somewhat. Besides, there is the disenfranchisement.

It's a shame in a way. That there is nothing to replace those nights. Elections are for observation, not participation. I'm not complaining when it comes to the Spanish election, though I know many do. Maastricht gave us what it did: Euro MPs, of whom we know little and for whom we care even less. Nevertheless, it would be nice to be able to vote, if only because of the mischief value. One more in favour of Sr. Iglesias wouldn't make too much difference, do you think? But it is not to be, and nor will the party night.