The last 72 hours…
7pm, Wednesday evening: Delivering leaflets in the rain with Steve. Warm sense of satisfaction, if a bit damp.
9:10am, Thursday morning: Get in the lift at work - its just me, George Osbourne and my big ‘vote Ken’ sticker.
6:00pm, Thursday evening: Leafleting outside the tube station, reminding commuters just coming home to go and vote for Ken. A really positive response, apart from the few who take perverse pleasure in saying they have voted for the other guy.
7:30pm, Thursday evening: Green C and I are so cold, we start jumping up and down to keep warm and making up our very own Ken chant, all that’s missing are some red pompoms. The slightly odd men who have been hanging around the tube station for a while, carrying a mannequin from the waist up, take this opportunity to try to speak to us.
9:00pm, Thursday evening: no more commuters, no more vote ken postcards, stand eating chips in the rain with Boy.
10:00pm, Thursday evening: depart to the pub, drink to victory, have one too many gin martinis.
9:00am, Friday morning: Metro has an exit poll, suggesting a Ken win of 55%. I have a hangover, suggesting an excessive gin intake of at least 20%. Carrying a bag with my dancing shoes, just in case…
10:00am, Friday morning: explain to work colleagues who don’t know how to look at BBC News, that no we don’t know who won and no we won’t know until much later that evening.
11:00am, Friday morning: sunny optimism is disappearing much more quickly than my hangover, disappointing on a number of levels. The lack of actual information as to how the count is going is immensely infuriating.
3:00pm, Friday afternoon: still no news, still nobody actually knows anything, there are no numbers, there are no figures, just rolling news coverage having to say something, and they are saying a win for Boris. Start trying to talk convincingly about the role that 2nd preferences can play.
6:30pm, Friday evening: standing outside City Hall, watching the anarchists protest, the police mill around, and the errie calm and quiet that engulfs the place. Head to the pub with Boy, no result expected until at least 10:30. The waiting is awful, but the result will be worse.
10:45pm, Friday evening: back outside City Hall. No more protests. An odd mix of Tories already quaffing champagne, bored film crews, subdued Labour supporters and confused tourists. It’s very cold, and despite the crowds, very isolating.
11:30pm: Friday evening: results imminent. The police gather around the windows of city hall, peering through to watch the result.
11:45pm: A large cheer goes up from the Conservatives. The BNP come and stand next to me, looking over the security cordon, down to the TV screen the police are focused on. Surprised both by how ordinary they look in real life, and how, if I’d been asked to describe what I thought the BNP would look like, I’d have said them.
12:00am, Saturday morning: Watch, but can’t hear, the four main candidates speak. The BNP candidate stands up to speak, the hall empties. That’s it.
Still can’t quite believe it’s over.
Ken says: Thank you
Boris says: Lets have a drink
One last video: Lilly Allen v Boris