2 May 2008
'No single candidate received more than half of the total first preference votes cast in the election.'
Anthony Mayer had a rather appropriate surname, thought Boris Johnson as he stood patiently on the platform in City Hall. The returning officer continued.
'…therefore, the two candidates who received the highest number of such votes remain in the contest. They are Ken Livingstone and Boris Johnson. I will now announce the total number of eligible second preference votes…'
Boris, along with everyone else on the platform, knew what was coming. Of course he did. They'd all been quietly informed a few minutes ago in a small meeting room down the corridor. Most people had looked surprised - Paddick especially - but only that oaf McKenzie had seen fit to look visibly angry that he'd lost. Boris had smiled, composed himself after what felt like a donkey-punch to the stomach, and shaken a grinning Ken by the hand.
'…Boris Johnson: sixty-eight thousand, five hundred and fifty two.'
There was a flutter of gasps among the press pack. Boris understood why. He'd known it was over when he heard that figure, even before his brain had actually done the maths.
'…a total of one million, seventy-three thousand, nine hundred and eighty-one votes.'
1,005,429 in the first round was bloody good going, Boris told himself. He'd become the first British politician to win over a million personal votes. The only one, if you only counted first preferences, as Ken had only got nine hundred and thirty thousand or so in the first round. But throughout the campaign, his people had been warning him he wasn't doing enough to win second preferences. Some of the Sloane Rangers whose dads had got them jobs at the top of Back Boris expected his cycling would guarantee at least half of the Green vote, but even his attempts to actually gain such support had been damp squibs. He refused to tack to the right on immigration or Europe, so UKIP and the BNP - the latter of whom had done disconcertingly well - were more closed to him than he expected. Now, staring down the barrel of a pathetic number of second preferences, he had to admit that his rudeness to Paddick in the Newsnight debate had been an error.
'…Ken Livingstone: two hundred and three thousand, six hundred and forty-one.'
Boris furrowed his brow ever so slightly. How had the red bastard done it? It had all looked too good to be true back in 2007. 'Bottler Brown', 'the election that wasn't', the hoohah with Northern Rock at the beginning of this year… Boris sighed. It was probably that u-turn on dropping the 10p tax that did it. When the Labour Party had threatened to tear itself apart - not just Frank Field and (of course) Ken, but cabinet members like Purnell started openly warning against the move - the measure, introduced in the 07 budget, was quietly axed, taking with it a major Tory ace.
'…a total of one million, one hundred and thirty-five thousand, eight hundred and fifty votes.'
And there we had it. The last remaining hopeful Tories must by now have buried their faces in their sofas. Boris gave a dutiful nod towards Ken and tried not to think back to those barnstorming debates and Ken's repeated use of that godawful 'fighting for London' phrase. Credit to the man, he'd never once cited his admirable performance after 7/7 as political capital, but his supporters hadn't shied away from it, especially not on the breakfast programmes in the week leading up to the election. Boris HQ had been up in arms when Irritable Jowell Syndrome came out and made that shameless assault on his character, asking if Britons 'could really picture Mr Johnson pulling London together after an event like the seventh of July'. Paul Merton being asked on the street outside the Comedy Store if he'd vote for him had backfired - 'you might as well ask if I'd vote for Brian Blessed' became a catchphrase for every one of the Labour Trots now determined to use his 'classic Boris' image against him. And now, it seemed, it had worked.
'I therefore declare that Ken Livingstone is re-elected as Mayor of London.'
As the cheers (and jeers) erupted, Boris threw the crowd his broadest grin and waved to his visibly distressed team in the upper gallery. As the newt-lover walked to the microphone with tears in his eyes, he stopped and held out his hand to Boris.
'Too bad,' came the raspy consolation, 'but you're young. We haven't seen the last of you.'
As the triumphant vision in creased cream turned his back and began a victory speech that sounded simultaneously pathetic and hectoring, Boris allowed his eyes to narrow infinitesimally. Livingstone was right. Britain had not seen the last of Boris Johnson.
'No single candidate received more than half of the total first preference votes cast in the election.'
Anthony Mayer had a rather appropriate surname, thought Boris Johnson as he stood patiently on the platform in City Hall. The returning officer continued.
'…therefore, the two candidates who received the highest number of such votes remain in the contest. They are Ken Livingstone and Boris Johnson. I will now announce the total number of eligible second preference votes…'
Boris, along with everyone else on the platform, knew what was coming. Of course he did. They'd all been quietly informed a few minutes ago in a small meeting room down the corridor. Most people had looked surprised - Paddick especially - but only that oaf McKenzie had seen fit to look visibly angry that he'd lost. Boris had smiled, composed himself after what felt like a donkey-punch to the stomach, and shaken a grinning Ken by the hand.
'…Boris Johnson: sixty-eight thousand, five hundred and fifty two.'
There was a flutter of gasps among the press pack. Boris understood why. He'd known it was over when he heard that figure, even before his brain had actually done the maths.
'…a total of one million, seventy-three thousand, nine hundred and eighty-one votes.'
1,005,429 in the first round was bloody good going, Boris told himself. He'd become the first British politician to win over a million personal votes. The only one, if you only counted first preferences, as Ken had only got nine hundred and thirty thousand or so in the first round. But throughout the campaign, his people had been warning him he wasn't doing enough to win second preferences. Some of the Sloane Rangers whose dads had got them jobs at the top of Back Boris expected his cycling would guarantee at least half of the Green vote, but even his attempts to actually gain such support had been damp squibs. He refused to tack to the right on immigration or Europe, so UKIP and the BNP - the latter of whom had done disconcertingly well - were more closed to him than he expected. Now, staring down the barrel of a pathetic number of second preferences, he had to admit that his rudeness to Paddick in the Newsnight debate had been an error.
'…Ken Livingstone: two hundred and three thousand, six hundred and forty-one.'
Boris furrowed his brow ever so slightly. How had the red bastard done it? It had all looked too good to be true back in 2007. 'Bottler Brown', 'the election that wasn't', the hoohah with Northern Rock at the beginning of this year… Boris sighed. It was probably that u-turn on dropping the 10p tax that did it. When the Labour Party had threatened to tear itself apart - not just Frank Field and (of course) Ken, but cabinet members like Purnell started openly warning against the move - the measure, introduced in the 07 budget, was quietly axed, taking with it a major Tory ace.
'…a total of one million, one hundred and thirty-five thousand, eight hundred and fifty votes.'
And there we had it. The last remaining hopeful Tories must by now have buried their faces in their sofas. Boris gave a dutiful nod towards Ken and tried not to think back to those barnstorming debates and Ken's repeated use of that godawful 'fighting for London' phrase. Credit to the man, he'd never once cited his admirable performance after 7/7 as political capital, but his supporters hadn't shied away from it, especially not on the breakfast programmes in the week leading up to the election. Boris HQ had been up in arms when Irritable Jowell Syndrome came out and made that shameless assault on his character, asking if Britons 'could really picture Mr Johnson pulling London together after an event like the seventh of July'. Paul Merton being asked on the street outside the Comedy Store if he'd vote for him had backfired - 'you might as well ask if I'd vote for Brian Blessed' became a catchphrase for every one of the Labour Trots now determined to use his 'classic Boris' image against him. And now, it seemed, it had worked.
'I therefore declare that Ken Livingstone is re-elected as Mayor of London.'
As the cheers (and jeers) erupted, Boris threw the crowd his broadest grin and waved to his visibly distressed team in the upper gallery. As the newt-lover walked to the microphone with tears in his eyes, he stopped and held out his hand to Boris.
'Too bad,' came the raspy consolation, 'but you're young. We haven't seen the last of you.'
As the triumphant vision in creased cream turned his back and began a victory speech that sounded simultaneously pathetic and hectoring, Boris allowed his eyes to narrow infinitesimally. Livingstone was right. Britain had not seen the last of Boris Johnson.
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