Out for the count

Inside the vote tally at Newton Abbot racecourse

Election night, I’ve decided, is Eurovision for nerds. A handful of charismatic chancers, a whole bunch of counting, and a knackered, possibly drunk, host. 

Honestly, it’s psychotic that an event of such heft and gravitas takes place in the middle of the night. Right? I arrive at Newton Abbot racecourse – covering the historic count for the BBC – bright as a button, at 8pm as agreed. Keen as a bean, I set up my laptop in the media centre. Then… I wait. For the exit poll. Which I watch on telly, just like you. 

Earlier in the day, on the school run, I explain to my ten-year old that democracy is beautiful, and I mean it. In the Newton Abbot racecourse media centre – every bit as lavish and futuristic as you imagine it to be – me and the girl from ITV punch the air at the mouthwatering prospect of a Starmer landslide. While around us walnut-skinned media veterans make a poor show of impartiality. 

A racecourse, of course, is a fitting venue for a count. A rich idiomatic seam of ‘first past the post’, ‘neck and neck’ and of course the suggestion of a cheeky ‘flutter’, like those sneakily laid on by those wretched, soon to be out-on-their-arse Tories.

Periodically I pop upstairs into the main counting room, where serried ranks of (mostly) chipper ladies, (mostly) of a certain age tally up ballots using those rubber thimble thingies and mountains of paperclips. Democracy manifest. 

Back in the media room, Naga Munchetty (on screen) is up in Blyth, which is apparently one of the ‘cool’ counting centres racing to be first to declare. They’re so much better lit than us here in Newton Abbot. Muscular lads with toned calves, sprinting to the counting floor, laden with ballots, while glamorous returning officers hover in make-up and marvellous millinery. 

Back on earth, over the scratchy racecourse tannoy, the sheer bloody Englishness of it all is brought deliciously home, as the ballot boxes arrive to great fanfare, from venues with cutesy Trumpton-esque names: “Salvation Army Ipplepen”. “Memorial Hall, East Dogwell”.

On telly, Jeremy Vine is prancing around a giant CGI map of the UK. Swear that used to be John Curtice’s bit? Curtice, cadaverous psephology guru, now relegated to a comfy Broadcasting House swivel chair as Vine straddles the expectant regions – a young man’s game. 

Upstairs in the counting room – hilariously, very Britishly taking place in the “Paddock Carvery” – things are hotting up. Piles are assembling, looking pretty close in some cases. Candidates, having snatched a nap after a long campaign, start to mosey in with their rosettes, vaping, eyeballing the piles to make sure there’s no funny business. 

Meanwhile on the box there’s modest satisfaction to be had watching the puppy-fat overexcitement of Labour newbies (Wes Streeting) contrasted against the measured suck-it showboating of salt-and-pepper grandees (Lord Mandelson). 

And, of course, the delirious joy of watching half-melted Thatcher action figure Andrea Leadsom and hangdog Victorian ghoul Jacob Rees-Mogg eat shit. 

Results pour in from around the country – ours is expected around 3:30am, again, that’s surely psychotic, everybody involved is knackered! Still, there’s fun to be had caricaturing the candidates. Every Green Party bod is, according to my notes, an ‘elfin vegan’. Every Reform candidate ‘a ruddy, lopsided boomer’.

As 3:30am approaches, we decamp from the media bit to the counting house (carvery!) Some of the piles are suspiciously similar in size, prompting my veteran media colleagues to wearily suggest the prospect of a re-count. Which would take us to around 5am. Not feeling that. 

A grizzled, mustachioed snapper from the Mid Devon Advertiser proudly shows us all his “money-shot” – a long-lens photograph of the Tory candidate weeping uncontrollably into a tissue. Bwah ha ha.

As the count is finally declared, the Lib Dems win, which is marvellous news. I overhear the Reform guy – every inch the florid old git you’re picturing – congratulate a spotty Labour oik (who came fourth I think) on an honourable campaign. “You’ll go far, sunshine.”

As folks file out, we flick off the media room telly – Laura Kuenssberg in her scrupulously neutral salmon blazer – and I drive home, along rainy 4am lanes that somehow feel kinder and lovelier than they did on the way in.