Urrghh. Who fucking cares who's first to declare their result. What's more, how can we be sure they're bothering to count the votes properly since they have that sad, weird obsessive zeal that drives the sort of people who eat a bathful of baked beans using a cocktail stick.
This is not an edition of Roy Castle's record breakers, nor is it a smugly presented Blue Peter item featuring ugly, basin-haired cub scouts or worse still, some four eyed little shit on Jim'll Fix it.
Actually, it seems that Sunderland South think this is like their rubbish village fete. The vote count is probably organised by the same social misfits who run the tombola or the White Elephant stall. I think they should try and make sure they count the votes properly, rather than pathetically throwing all integrity out the window to try and be the first. I hope they fail with the same contemptuous passion that I used to wish failure on the retarded contestants of such appalling drivel as You Bet, The Generation Game or the sad, weird loser trying to break the record for eating the most boiled eggs in a minute on Record Breakers.
We're all getting quite pissed now. We want to inject an aspect of excitement into the evening since we all know Blair will win, because despite being a lying bastard, there's just no opposition, no real interest and no thinking. At least if we drink all this gin, we can hope for some small element of uncertainty tonight. Things are spicing up. Amanda (who is rather a crude, Northern woman unable to hold her drink) has already thrown her desk lamp at the image of Cherie Blair's smug, grinning face, while pervy Sir Michael is keeping vigil on the giant projection screen, hoping for a glimpse of Mrs Howard, or failing that, he may settle for Oona King.