COMMENT: Out for the Count

12.32.00pm GMT Fri 21st Mar 2008

Election counts are a bit like coronations but with rather less bling and several candidates with the throne in mind. Like the most secretive parts of coronations, the public are excluded from the mysterious inner sanctum of the temple, or Town Hall, election agents are ushered up to a top table or high altar on the word of the high priest (or Election Officer) and mysterious things are spoken well out of earshot of the rest of us who have had mere supporting roles thus far.

The strangest thing is that politicians from opposing factions who might otherwise not pass the time of day with each other are totally transformed, showing all-too human emotions, nervousness, a kind of gallows humour and sometimes even exchanging unexpected pleasantries. For they are all in the same boat. Waiting for the axe to fall.

Some will be spared come the morning, some even promoted, others sent out into the wilderness, never to return. It's heady stuff waiting for futures to be decided and dreams to be shattered or brought on to mellow fruitfulness. Like phases of the moon and the tides that planetary body commands the fortunes of the political parties wax and wane, too.

Here in the faded art deco glory of Lambeth's Assembly Halls we can only sit and wait. The dye is cast - although we do not know it yet. All those weeks of planning, all those miles walked delivering messages to the people now count as nothing as we wait for the boxes to arrive, those ballot papers to be emptied out like so much litter, and then sorted with extreme care into coloured trays.

Red, yellow and blue. Party hacks watch with eagle eyes for errant papers. Fringe parties get anonymous looking grey trays - but no-one's looking there, and, short of a minor miracle, they are not going to overflow, either.

It's a two horse race, this one. The Easter Stakes. The Vassal Gold Cup. They are off.

Yes, it's a quick canter across Brixton Road, over the first hurdle at Myatt's Field North where the going is heavy after overnight rain, into Ackerman's - always a difficult one to negotiate this - now they're passing the grandstands over at the Knatchbull Road end, crossing the Brixton Road again, still it's neck and neck with everything to play for as they round Stockwell Park Crescent where the pace is quickening, and they'll soon be heading for the home straight........

But right now back to our commentator in the steward's enclosure.

Everyone forecast that it would be a close run thing. But the Labour super confident faces are slipping, their leader's beaming smile is now looking contrived like a piece of wall paper covering the cracks. Beads of sweat are appearing on the matinee idol's brow through all the make-up. It hasn't been a good week.

Worse is to come. Imperceptibly the orange bundles seem to be getting more numerous than the red ones. Are our eyes deceiving us? Will the contents of a late box upset the whole thing? The sages reading the runes say otherwise.

We hold our breath as the official roll of the votes cast is read out.

The Liberal Democrats have won. And not by a neck. But several furlongs.