And now it is my turn. The presidential election has probably faded from the transient American consciousness by the time you read this article; a consequence of new events or the deluge of exposure given it by an insatiable media. Another compilation of vague recollections of that night in November may fail to tickle your erogenous zones, but at least persevere. For a certain nomadic Englishman, it was far from a normal night.

Elections are cruel junctures in history, traditionally prone to reveal the absolute stinking incompetence of the voters--you know, those smelly, vulgar sorts who work in offices and sell you consumer durables. An election occurred in Britain this year. I was suitably intoxicated with red wine before it became clear that Her Majesty's rabble had consulted the lining of their wallets, and voted against being deprived of any personal luxuries. Naturally fate dictated that the myopic populace was ravaged for its sins. Unemployment soared, and the pound dived. I believe that emigration advisors are ploughing a fertile trade in London now.

In anticipation of further disillusionment--in the form of an entrenchment of the Right--I invested in a small bouteille of Wild Turkey, into which to peer as swathes of elephants prepared to tread and defecate on major states. The Kennedy School of Government was already in Democratic rapture, as I cunningly displaced two old ladies from their front-row seats ("Look madam, there's free sex over there"--and off they rushed). But, decadently supine on my purchased seats, I felt it unwise to trust polls and estimates favoring Clinton. In Britain they are usually wildly askew, as the selfish tax-evaders exculpate their vices in regular lying to pollsters. "Oh yes, I believe pensions should go up, foreign aid up, defense down, jobs up. Darling, are we having baked beans or the children for tea?" It was natural to fear that the citizens here should be similarly Janus-faced. Out came the aforementioned bottle, and a swig of vile liquor arrived in my gullet.

Television graphics are really the images which will anchor the 20th century in human history. CNN presented a piquant montage of flying insignia and colliding stars, all to the swirling depths of epic music. Interactive media reached its apogee in exit poll analysis in one broadcast, as sturdy colored columns thrust out of the presenter's table to represent voters' wishes. "Now, Diane, do we have a breakdown of veterans from the Korean as opposed to Vietnam wars?" Pollsters' minutiae assailed the retina, with columns, forecasts and maps pulsating in all directions, quite inexplicably, yet invoked in deadly serious tones. "Diane, do we have a breakdown of votes of those who prefer eggs to cereal at breakfast? Do those who had sexual intercourse at least once the night before show a marked preference for Clinton? Is marijuana consumption correlated with votes for the Natural Law Party?"

By now the map was starting to turn blue, and the bottle was half empty. Joyous Democrats were pirouetting before me, and the night was turning to the old kicking donkey. Swathes of the creatures had circulated out from their encampment in New England, and were chewing grass in the South and West. The Kennedy School's chart showed the Boy Bill well onto the second floor, while Bush had barely clambered up one step.

Then it all became a bit confusing, a pungent brew of alcoholic reverie and post-election hysteria. Clinton broke 270 votes, and the hall seethed with delight and unrestrained hugging. Perot took to the dance floor and Bush, looking rather pleased with himself--"Look Barbara, I've lost an election. Aren't I clever?"--committed the decade's most revealing slip in thanking, yes thanking, Governor Bill. Democrats in the hall took their long-awaited chance to fondle each other, election results from God knows where flickered seductively on screen, and, oops, that was my last drop of the noxious brew.

The hardy among us weathered it through to Clinton's speech. By now, the remaining viewers were in a variety of exhausted poses, and lines of argument reached me from all directions: "And I'm saying the anti-incumbency factor has overridden, right, like, completely removed coattails from the Clinton surge...how can they say that Cuomo is worse than Clinton. The man is a seer, he is just the greatest...And our chart shows that white protestants with 2.4 kids and severe dyspepsia...So what are you doing on Friday night?...I've always loved you, you know that. Always."

Sinking lower and lower, the matchsticks were out to keep the eyes propped open. The inexhaustible treasure of the analysts' mind revealed itself in more precious sentences. It's a surge, a landslide, a mandate, a vote for change, an electoral surge, a rebuke, an end to history as we know it. Stars and Stripes in abundance were unfurled, and the great dreams and myths for a new age--the fuel of this society--were dramatized to the nation.

Suddenly the the screen's vision descended onto Little Rock, where a choir ululated and a crowd cheered. Shhhhhh. Chastened whispers reverberated in the hall in anticipation of Bill's great moment. And there he was, a hulking form of a man, graying and hoarse, an individual who had just assumed the most enormous expanse of power, consummating a lifetime's fervent ambitions with the help of a nation's choice. I stared at his face. Such enormous pride and success seemed to well up in his eyes, so much so that he must temporarily have lost sense of his embodiment, his feet, arms, the people in ecstasy round him. As his spirit soared, the temptation to rip off his clothes and dance a goblin dance was surely huge. To throw his toned muscles into the adoring crowd, and sublimate himself by exquisitely losing control; for surely all human Gods must look on their bodies with a detached curiosity. Was it me, my drunken apparitions, or had Clinton in a fleeting gest tasted the ambrosia forbidden to mortals?

Infused with partisan joy, the hall also loosened itself from its moorings on the Charles River, and slowly eased its way up into the air to live in the celestial moment. The drug-like rapture of dreams and hopes untold erased the reality of a cold, wet night. But it was time to go. And just as the inevitable consequence of drink is a rotten stomach and polluted brain, so I fear a night of undiluted hope may be wrecked by harsh sobriety.