"The English People believes itself to be free: it is gravely mistaken; it is free only during the election of MPs; as soon as the Members are elected the people is enslaved."
(J J Rousseau)

It was election coverage as only the British seem to do it. The bouncy House of Commons with red, yellow and blue-costumed children each symbolising 10 members of Parliament. The BBC's high-flying prostitute (the "whore in the helicopter") ready to rush to the side of the first elected MP in order to initiate the first scandal of the new government. Whizzy computer graphics showing party leaders blowing up their opponents constituencies or being buried up to the neck in landslides. Interviewers freed at last from the need to be even-handed and going for blood ("Ready to drink hemlock yet, Mr Portillo?" "You don't really think John Major's going to be party leader tomorrow, do you?"). Megabytes of statistics, extrapolating from a single result to produce authoritative pronouncements ("and if that result were replicated across the country, we would have 497 Plaid Cymru MPsà").

We watched the exit poll. "Who's brought the champagne?" Everyone looked at Alison. Alison looked embarrassed. "Guess we'll just have to celebrate with beer, thenà" Luckily, we had some appropriate beerà

Vote with your throat

Sue provided some very snazzy t-shirts for Steven & Marianne. Steven's had a fine portrayal of a John Major shish kebab, with the slogan The Only Good Tory is a Yakitori. However, she outdid herself for Marianne, as shown below;

I support the Natural Law Party, but then I'm only three months & 17 days oldà [Is there no end to the lengths Alison will go to get baby photos into Plokta? -- Ed.]

Once Labour had safely won the election, a tide of strange portents began to appear. Comets appeared in the sky. The weather turned sunny (briefly). England won at cricket. The CBI called for higher taxes. Croydon fandom sacrificed a goat.

But for the Plokta cabal, it was business as usual.