The subconscious semaphore of the ties one after another in the dark chill of the sunrise after. David Cameron reverted to blue, stately blue, his loyal colour. Gordon Brown wore mauve, again. Brown never wears brown. Mauve has been the colour of this election, the chameleon hue, a bit of everything, majestic purple lite.
And Nick Clegg, when he stepped out of the Liberal Democrats headquarters, blinking his sleepy eyes at the dauntless new emergence that had incited out to be usually as teasingly unsatisfactory as each alternative Liberal new emergence given the good war, had orange hung from his neck.
Was this Liberal yellow churned with the revolutionary red blood of martyrs passed or was it maybe a curtsy to the stately residence of Holland and his ancestors? A sign that Nick is one of the unequivocally integrate of humans who has ever learnt to verbalise Dutch, but carrying to, for fun?
He is not identical to us and he looks even younger than he did prior to the debates. He might be the Benjamin Button of mould-breaking. To reduce the guess that in a integrate of weeks he will have got as well immature to vote, they send out Paddy Ashdown, who has a face identical to a comfortable scrotum.
Ashdown spends a lot of time cheering in to a camera lens, saying, Well, youll have to ask David Cameron that, hollered in the air as if a intensity new Liberal slogan.
After that, Lena Pietsch, Cleggs press secretary, emerges, ready to go in a grey smock. Beware Germans in Wehrmacht grey. She spins a small unpretentious lecture some-more out of robe than conviction.
She isnt happy, Clegg isnt happy, they arent being quite magnanimous with the joy.
The factious, noisy, squabbling and scatologically smart integrate of photographers and cameramen that we hacks call the monkeys since they stand up things and you dont wish to watch them eating scuttle off to Downing Street screaming at each other.
The law enforcemetn officer in the security hovel is spookily jolly. Policemen identical to the rain of politicians and changes in administration. Its sparkling and gives them a clarity of their own life at the responsibility of the transient, of those who have kept them up on cold nights.
The monkeys quarrel on the erected scaffolding. Secretaries and assistants and the work-experience sons of celebration donors and US Democratic senators arise from No eleven and tingle the net fate of the top storeys to see the budding minister, maybe for the last time.
A pulpit stands forlornly in the center of the street. A small child scampers up and places a integrate of pieces of paper on it. None of us has any thought possibly this will be a in contact with early retirement residence or a stipulation of rebuttal with squadrons of kinship activists receiving over air wave stations and write exchanges and the phenomenon of a peoples republic.
As we wait, I notice how well confirmed No 10 is: all the indicating and the lead are pristine. This contingency be the majority appropriate kept legislature residence in the country. The glossy black doorway with the curved 0 opens and out comes the budding minister, bringing with him the miasma of insane men, disaster and regret.
Standing by the pulpit he is alone on the bridge, the captain of a little stricken liner, cheering orders and incantations to the crackling air. Actually, the debate is rather statesmanlike but all about him seems lost and loopy.
We can feel the energy ebb, the splendid impulse slipping away. There is a point when the accoutrements and mechanics of supervision stop elevating and proceed to mock. He finishes and turns and Jon Snow yells at the retreating behind hunched opposite the winds of change: Why havent you resigned?
Above us all a chatterbox carrying a beakful of moss goes to begin her open nest; she is an prognostication and chatters that staccato warning, One for sorrow.
We scuttle on to St Stephens club. Apparently this was a Conservative dining club. What is it with Tories? If 3 of them are trapped in a lift they wish to form a little sort of bar to keep everybody else out; and as we head for St Stephens they try to keep me out.
The Conservative press handlers discuss it me my name is not on the list. It sounds vaguely to do with something hereditary. Then they discuss it me this journal isnt on the list possibly and afterwards finally, with squeals of advise and delight, they find both the journal and me on the list and lamp at me identical to a physique risen.
Inside, ignored by the idol of Winston Churchill, Cameron marches smartly in to the room. There is no mistaking his feeling or the ambience that comes with him. He moves at a swagger, the breeze that has becalmed Clegg and blows in Browns teeth is at this mans back.
He puts his feet up on the bottom of the podium, the informed position of a man at the bar of his internal about to explain a little home truths. His debate has the prominence of an suggest done to the Lib Dems, delivered by a man who is behest 6 no trumps.
Sitting with the press are Eric Pickles and Oliver Letwin, the worried Laurel and Hardy. Letwins hair stands on end; he is a man who usually last night found himself station in the center of the domestic motorway, staring at the approaching headlights of fate, and afterwards woke up to find he was still here.
Pickles is a figure who has depressed out of a Dickens novel; he jogs off in poke of a dining bar or two. The press indent and gossip. This is the majority tasty impulse to be of the run or a columnist. No one knows anything, it is all disharmony and the delightful. The streets of Westminster glister with the persperate of amour and the tears of disappointment.
Next day, Saturday, we rally in the drizzle outward Transport House, once such a heart of energy and right away the assembly place where the parliamentary Lib Dem celebration has come to confirm what to do in the majority appropriate interests of the nation. Sorry, in the majority appropriate interests of the Lib Dem party.
The initial order of governing body is unselfish solecism; the republic and the celebration are synonymous. Its a disconnected morning. Ashdown gets hustled; no one is observant most except, Youll have to ask David Cameron that. And collectively we can brand usually 3 Liberals; who knows what the alternative 50-odd see like?
Michael Crick leads a bolt of camera crews after a lady who turns out to be a contributor from The Guardian; photographers follow Geoff Hoon down the street. When you are marked down to using after Hoon the probably time for lunch.
Also erratic around Westminster are a organisation of morris men, identical to a lost JB Priestley punchline or the essence of Pucks old England. There is a wreath-laying at the Cenotaph to honour VE Day and, by implication, the delight of bloc government.
On Parliament Square, ignored by Lloyd George, the last Liberal to lead a bloc as budding minister, a organisation of impassioned environmental squatters have set up a tented village. I am shown around by a honeyed child whom well call David.
He takes me proudly to the new straw-bale shower (no solids) for men: When the straw is full, well take it to St Jamess Park and widespread it on the flowers. We havent got one for women yet.
Another lad, whom well call Nick, smells worse than the straw. Were in a pacific rebellion, says David. We wish to set up a new republic but money.
Opposite him the good phoney medieval raise of the Palace of Westminster stands vacant and pretentious and empty.
Brown out
You cant contend Nick Clegg didnt advise us that Britain would be faced with Gordon Brown squatting in No 10 after the election. So how can he be prised out? Roland White gets creative.
1 Hello, is that Gordon? Its Barack Obama here. No, I know it doesnt receptive to advice identical to me. Ive, er, got a bit of a cold. Yes, infrequently sufficient it does have me receptive to advice Old Etonian. Anyway, listen, the critical thing is that Ive got a tellurian mercantile predicament on my hands and usually you can compromise it. Could you cocktail over true away? No, dont worry to pack.
You can have your bags sent on.
2 When America longed for to force General Manuel Noriega, former tyrant of Panama, below, from the embassy where he was receiving retreat in 1989, they bloody him with deafening, round-the-clock stone music. A identical tactic could work with Brown. All we will need is a successive fasten of the Labour leaders difference in Rochdale: Some hypocritical lady who used to opinion Labour. . . hypocritical lady who used to opinion Labour . . .
3 Hello, is that Gordon? This is Bono. No, I know it doesnt receptive to advice identical to me. Ive, er, got a bruise throat. Yes, infrequently sufficient it does have me receptive to advice Old Etonian. Anyway, listen, I thought Id cocktail over to empathize on your new choosing defeat. Hello? Gordon? Are you there?
4 Tell Brown theres a man in John o Groats who really, unequivocally wants to listen to about his typical upbringing as the son of a manse, Presbyterian values, dignified compass, blah, blah, blah. Brown wouldnt miss an event to go on about that.
5 Hello, is that Gordon? This is Lembit Opik here. Yes, yes, I lost too. I contingency advise you that an asteroid set upon is approaching in the Downing Street area any minute. What do you mean, have I got a cold or a bruise throat? No, no . . . you dont understand, this unequivocally is Lembit.
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