Some time between midnight and two, waiting for my mate to come out the loo at the Carling Academy in Birmingham, I finally get some reception on my phone. The internet tells me Boris Johnson is London’s new mayor. My night now with something of a dampner on it, I promptly bump into Kat R of BULS, and share the news. We forlornly drift over to the bar to drown our sorrows and have a couple of shots in Ken’s honour.
I had a feeling all along this would happen, and am sad to be proved right. My Mum, a former Londoner, replied to my forlorn text with “Fuck. Think about emigration.” My Dad followed that up with “At least he’s not mayor of Brum.” Heh- I guess he wasn’t checking the Birmingham election results too closely from little old Eastbourne.
The results are what we always kinda knew would happen, but they’re still a bit of a kick in the gut. A mate from Sheffield rang me yesterday, and couldn’t sound more depressed if someone had died.
Time to move on- to learn, to recharge our batteries and to refresh…