A Nigel-Shaped Hole in the Velodrome

Ben Wildsmith

The places where our destiny is decided tend not to live up to their place in history. The last time I was at an election count, when Lindsey Whittle threw himself in front of the Reform UK hype train to the visible disappointment of the London press, it was in the homely environs of Caerphilly Leisure Centre in the dead of night.

This time, I found myself in the Geraint Thomas Velodrome in Newport as morning sunshine settled over a political class that seemed subdued after the exertions of the campaign.

‘What’s the feeling?’ I asked a couple of Plaid representatives. They smiled, slightly disorientated with the curved, wooden cycle track rising around us, swooping ominously as if offended by the lack of cyclists.

‘Optimistic?’ I goaded.

‘Optimistic, but tired.’ One offered. ‘Exhausted on several levels; levels I didn’t know existed.’

As in Caerphilly, the Reform contingent kept to themselves. In a casual room, their table was dressed in matching, three-piece, dark blue suits. Shiny shoed and tersely focussed, they whiled away the count awaiting the arrival of Dan Thomas and maybe, just maybe…

In the press room, everyone was in comic revolt. The security arrangements meant that we all had to put our phones into clear plastic bags when entering the count area. A Photographer with three enormous cameras around his neck had enquired why.

‘So you can’t take pictures of the count. Put it in the bag.’

‘I wouldn’t have lasted long in this job if I didn’t know election law, would I?’ thundered a veteran reporter. ‘Fucking jobsworths.’ He added, as soon as security were out of earshot.

Further enquiries produced dark mutterings about ‘something that happened at last year’s count.’ No details were offered, and the mystery remained, like Uncle Bryn’s fishing trip in Gavin & Stacey.

Dan Thomas arrived and was, perhaps for the first time in his life, the most famous person in the room. We huddled round as he held court.

‘Too early to tell; the story is Labour; amazing achievement to be the main contender in Wales…’

Where’s Nigel? Everyone thought. We were promised Nigel.

In Caerphilly, last year, he’d been rumoured to be in a Range Rover in the car park, waiting to see if Reform had won before pushing Zia Yusuf out into the night to face the press. This time, he hadn’t even made it through the Brynglas tunnel.

‘He’s like one of those tiger moms,’ one observer remarked. ‘Second place means nothing.’

Hysterical laughter

On the Labour’s table, there was an edge-of-tears camaraderie. Beyond hope, but not yet free of the adrenaline that had driven them through the campaign, occasional bursts of hysterical laughter punctured their mourning as the appointed hour approached.

‘The count is now complete. Could candidates and agents please make their way to what is nowadays known as the ‘spin room’ for a private meeting about the result.’

This was it, game time. Even then, the eerie calm around proceedings persisted as we politely took our places in front of the stage. Two for Reform, two for Plaid, and one apiece for Labour and the Tories.

Dan Thomas took to the stage, just about a winner. Invoking a ‘people’s army’ that he claimed to lead, his pledge was to represent everyone, whether they had voted for Reform or not.

He didn’t specify which part of the constituency would be hosting an immigrant removal centre if his party wins in Westminster. The trouble with the D’Hondt system is you can’t tell who to punish.

Shocked

The Conservatives’ Natasha Asghar was last to the stage. Demonstrably shocked at retaining her seat, she grinned that she hadn’t written a speech but promised to ‘change Wales.’ Into what, we wondered.

The Reform camp wasn’t disappointed at missing out on a clear victory, apparently. Oh no, it was exactly what they had hoped for. Dan Thomas didn’t know if Nigel would be along later.

‘It’s quite a trek from London, I suppose, and I haven’t had time to check my phone.’