Baked bean exclusive - my big election night scoop (From Watford Observer)

Baked bean exclusive - my big election night scoop

11:47am Monday 11th January 2010

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Normally I have to admit that I’m not that interested in politics. Apart from the recent MPs’ expenses furore with its thrilling tales of luxury duck houses, essential moat-cleaning and complimentary Kit-Kats, I tend to avoid rumblings from the Mother of Parliaments in a conscious attempt to keep my blood pressure within reasonable parameters.

But even I haven’t been able to ignore the fact that 2010 is election year. Although a date hasn’t been set, the leaders of the main political parties have recently started to lovebomb the nation like a couple of kamikaze bridegrooms.

‘Call me Dave’ and Gordon the Glum left no cliché unturned in the last couple of weeks as the unofficial campaigning began.

We’ve already been treated to the unsettling sight of rosy-cheeked David Cameron clutching a new-born to his breast in a National Health maternity ward, while a glimpse of Gordon Brown attempting some jovial, light-hearted banter reminded me of one of those horribly mistreated dancing bears forced to perform the sort of routine that doesn’t come easy to a big furry quadruped.

Whatever the final outcome, one thing is certain - there are going to be an awful lot of cringe-making moments ahead of us over the next few months before the sealed ballots boxes are brought to Watford Town Hall.

Now, the election night count is something I can write about with some authority having reported on the event for the Watford Observer at some time in the late 1980s.

On election day, various important roles were assigned to the journalistic stars of the newsdesk. The plan was for everyone to be locked into the Town Hall for the count and then to return to our office in Rickmansworth Road in the middle of the night to write up copy for the edition due out the very next day.

There was a tangible buzz of excitement as responsibilities for the evening were announced.

When it came to me, however, there was a notable pause.

Sensing that I was mortified at the prospect of being left out again (I must point out here that I was hand-picked to ‘man’ the phones in the office on the day when Mikhail Gorbachev came to Watford) our news editor relented and suggested with an air of resignation that I could write what is known as a ‘colour piece’ about the election night atmosphere.

And so it came to pass that on the big day at around 10.30pm I was locked into Watford Town Hall with all my reporter colleagues, dozens of ballot boxes and, with hindsight, what appeared to be around 200 imposingly efficient, large-breasted women called Margaret who were in charge of the counting.

As it turned out, I wasn’t only locked into the count. It must have been the sheer excitement of the occasion, but my very first impulse as the doors closed behind us was to visit the facilities.

Half an hour later I was still alone in the ladies wrestling with a cubicle door that refused to budge. Unless someone made a trip to the loo pretty soon it looked as if the only ‘colour’ piece I was going to be able to write would be a description of the Town Hall’s sanitary ware.

Luckily, back at the count, coffee was flowing like the River Gade in spate, so it was only about another 10 minutes before someone released me.

Trying to sneak back unnoticed into the main hall, I was apprehended by a senior colleague who demanded to know where I’d been for the last 45 minutes.

“Oh, you know, circulating, getting a general feel for things,” I lied. She didn’t look convinced, but at that point I was saved by a sighting of Watford’s incumbent Tory MP who was floating genially through the throng.

“Mr Garel-Jones!” I shouted, flinging myself towards him in what I hoped appeared to be an impressively professional way.

He paused and turned his patrician head in my direction and then lowered his gaze to his waist level where I hovered expectantly.

“Catherine Cain, Watford Observer.” I smiled up at him.

“Yes..?” he queried.

My mind went completely blank as I fished the deepest recesses for a politically incisive question.

This turned out to be: “Er…what did you have for tea before you came to the count this evening?”

Tristan Garel-Jones arched an eyebrow and answered that he’d treated himself to an immersion bath and beans on toast.

“Great…and…er… were they Heinz?” I asked, desperately trying to prolong the conversation long enough for me ask a semi-cogent question.

“Yes, I think they were,” he replied warily, clearly viewing me now as something pink and repellent that you might find stuck to the sole of your shoe.

Emboldened by this scoop, I managed to retrieve a question that actually was a bit political and asked him if he minded his media soubriquet ‘Prince of Darkness’ - he had a Peter Mandelson-style reputation at the time as a Machiavellian behind-the-scenes manipulator.

Clearly caught off-guard by my interview technique, he turned and stalked away, vanishing into a faintly demonic cloud of cigarette smoke emanating from the ‘rest’ area.

A couple of minutes later I caught up with Labour Party candidate Mike Jackson, who was already looking a bit dejected as things clearly weren’t going his way.

Adopting a similar probing line of questioning I learned that Mike had snatched a cheese sandwich and joined his electoral team for a swift half at the Horns public house before coming on to the count.

We then had a chat about his sartorial choice for the evening. I recall that Mike Jackson actually looked a lot crisper than Tristan Garel-Jones despite the fact that the latter’s suit probably came from Jermyn Street.

The apparent success of my fashion questions inspired me to have conversation later in the evening with the exquisitely attired Mrs Garel-Jones whose lovely shoes, she told me, came from Spain.

I was actually beginning to enjoy myself when suddenly the room went silent and the returning officer announced the results. (Mike Jackson’s intimations of defeat had been right, by the way, Tristan Garel-Jones retained his Watford seat.)

Back at the office I stared at my computer screen at 3.30am and realised with a horrible sinking feeling that my election night colour piece would consist mostly of total trivia.

Still, it was too late now to turn the clock back; the deadline for the printers was 4am. I started to type….

Two weeks later I was utterly shocked (and secretly delighted) to see my very own Watford Observer bird’s eye view of proceedings described in a snippet by industry paper the UK Press Gazette as “minutely observed and amusing”.

Not that it did my career much good. In the rush to get our finished copy to the printers a sleepy sub-editor put the wrong by-line on it.

So, I might just as well have spent the evening locked in the Town Hall lavatories after all.