Tories rule. Boris Johnson wins General Election victory.

Tories rule. Boris Johnson wins General Election victory.

It was the morning after the night before. Larry the Cat, the Downing Street cat, was prowling around the famous black door and just a couple of miles away Boris Johnson, the re-elected Prime Minister of Great Britain, had finally come to an amicable agreement with his blond hair. The world suddenly looked so radiant and beautiful that he may have felt tempted to run through one of Theresa May's cornfields with a song in his heart.

There are no reflective post mortems or sullen sulks but Jeremy Corbyn, the now humiliated leader of the Labour party will slump over an alcoholic hangover or so and just resign himself to what ever will be will be. Hair of the dog moments will follow almost inevitably and as he stares at the floor with an utterly forlorn and distraught air, he will probably find that the world he would have liked to turn upside down is wearing the smartest of blue rosettes and laughing all the way to 10 Downing Street.

Last night was an almost terrifyingly painful evening for the Labour party and it remains to be seen whether Britain will ever see red again. Generations may come and go and the Tony Blair years must seem like some purple period where the fields were quite definitely Elysian, things might have become increasingly better and education would always be repeated three times. The memories of a grinning and smug Blair waving to his adoring followers must now seem like a honeymoon period for the Labour party where everything was sheer bliss and ecstasy.

But here we are a day after the General Election and finally the country has delivered a Prime Minister with the biggest majority since Margaret Thatcher gave Neil Kinnock the most grotesque black eye. It wasn't as if we didn't know what was coming because we had been given prior warning. We knew all about Corbyn's controversial CV with all of those toxic racist fingerprints all over it.

We knew that there was something of the night about Corbyn and today we find ultimate vindication. We judged this one perfectly and we'll know in future that if anybody like Corbyn finds himself anywhere near political power again we'll tell them exactly where to go. There wasn't even any sign of damage limitation for Corbyn because he must have known that he was the guilty party.

And yet in the early hours of this morning, the bearded one from Islington slowly ambled around Islington Town Hall like a little boy lost, smiling weakly but all the while aware of the repulsive stink he'd left behind him. That'll teach him not to play with fire and besides he always seemed to be fighting a lost cause. Even the people around him didn't know quite what to say so shell shocked did they look. The final result had yet to be announced but it felt as if they were looking at a decaying corpse.

 The life force was ebbing away from Corbyn's challenge and perhaps somebody should have dropped a subtle hint in his ears. It was time to leave the building for the last time and Jeremy Corbyn knew it. He didn't show it but you could almost read the |Corbyn body language. It may have been the right time to just depart and never come back again under any circumstances. He knew what he was letting himself in for but at no point had he heeded the tell tale signs.

Back at BBC headquarters, the scribes and reporters were eagerly beavering away in town halls and community centres all over the country. Behind most of them there was that customary hive of activity that we've come to expect from the Voice of the Establishment. Wherever the BBC went there were voting halls that looked remarkably like aircraft hangars or busy furniture warehouses where every so often you would see whole clusters of people scurrying around as if their lives depended on it.

Back in the studio the esteemed and hugely likeable Huw Edwards looked unflustered and unflappable, calmly professional to his finger tips, a man of suave assurance. Then the tireless Laura Kuenssberg finally slowed down after all those exhaustive travels around the country. This had been a resounding victory for both Wales and Scotland. It's at times like this that a BBC newsroom needs a good, strong cup of black coffee and then your mind drifted back to Elections of yesteryear.

You recalled the days when the recently retired David Dimbleby was the master of ceremonies, an eloquent and smooth operator from a rich and renowned family of English TV broadcasters. For most of the 1970s Dimbleby, accompanied by the equally as well informed Robert McKenzie and the memorably amusing Peter Snow would gently guide their TV audience through the night.

However last night we were all reminded why General Election night on the TV can make for such compulsive viewing. In the opening hour or so of the BBC's saturation coverage of the Election there seems like a mad and frenzied chase to find the first constituency to declare that they'd finished their count and can therefore reveal the winners of their regional contest.

Last night Sunderland, Blyth Valley and Newcastle Upon Tyne were going flat out to be the first ones to say that they were ready. This is some strange phenomena that always seems to happen on Election night without fail. It seems as if the whole of the North East of England is determined to get it all over and done with before midnight. You can imagine the whole of the North East collectively panicking in case they miss the last late night bus before somebody switches off the lights.

In one of the local North East locations a gentleman wearing a Sunderland football shirt stood next to his contenders just glad to be there. Was he hoping that some kind hearted soul would allow him to open up the Stadium of Light for a late night tour of the ground? Then there was Lord Buckethead, a man or woman obviously intent on milking Election night for everything that it was worth.

When it was all over and the dust settled we lifted our eyes open with the nearest available matchsticks and thanked both the BBC and the House of Commons for their funky collaboration. It had been one of those magical and historic nights when two national institutions battled it out for the rights to be noticed and recognised.

So it was that early this morning Boris Johnson paid another visit to Her Majesty the Queen and very politely asked Her Majesty if she would be so good as to allow him to run the country again.  It may not have been too much to ask since this time he would be doing so in the full knowledge that this time he could do the job without worrying whether the bearded one Jeremy Corbyn would stop nagging him to announce yet another General Election. Boris, the stage is yours.