YOU can dust yourself down, wipe the lipstick off your cheeks and pull the streamers from your hair … the election is over.
And what’s not to be happy about?
They’ve gone the way of cross-eyed kids and white dog poo - only ever found pre-1979
Having followed (for followed read ‘been unable to avoid’) the respective General Election candidates over the last few weeks, whoever has won will see us alright. They promised.
And even though the losers will probably have to resign from their jobs, that just means more good news for us.
I mean, having shown such an overwhelming desire to help ordinary folk, the defeated candidates will no doubt end their political ambitions and secure a position in the caring professions.
Nurse David Cameron may well be taking your temperature on the wards this time next week or Ed Miliband will be delivering meals on wheels to old folks homes. And who’s that putting together Red Cross parcels? Why, foreign aid worker Nigel Farage.
These are selfless people who put others first, remember.
At the time of writing this column, the result of polling had not been revealed.
But judging by the carnival atmosphere at the polling stations, this General Election had captured the imagination of the public and was going to be a doozy. I’ve never seen so many people clamouring to be first to cast their votes. Erm, NOT.
Why isn’t there a carnival atmosphere? As we only vote once every five years, we should be doing the conga to the polling stations. And the party atmosphere is actively encouraged.
According to the official guidelines for casting your vote at polling stations, you can drink alcohol. In fact, you can be drunk. Music is also allowed. And you can bring a friend, or a child, or an animal! You can even be under the influence of drugs and they can’t turn you away!
Sounds more like the minimum requirements of a Guns N’ Roses after-show hotel party than the official guidelines for exercising your democratic right.
Yet the momentous task of sealing your nation’s fate for the next five years is undertaken with the verve and enthusiasm normally reserved for root canal surgery.
Which is why when I cast my vote, I did so stretching the official guidelines to the limit. I’d tell you who I voted for, but I can’t remember. Too drunk. Better ask the dog.