Statistics, strategies and strops

“I’m afraid to get up off the sofa to go to the toilet in case Sinn Féin take my seat,” was the social media post that had me chuckling heartily as I scrolled Facebook in a fatigued daze.

I had just arrived home after covering my first election.

And, as I plonked myself down, letting out a weary sigh, I reflected on what was a lively two days.

There I was on the Friday morning, a jaunty journalist making her way across the leisure centre car park, a tripod tucked under my oxter and laboriously carting a backpack crammed with ‘essentials’.

As I entered the building, a press armband was secured to my wrist and so it begun.

Immediately, I was startled by the absurd levels of stillness – and the highly favourable working conditions.

Perhaps this had something to do with the absence of BBC staff, who were showing solidarity with the strike in relation to job cuts.

The pre-election whispers told me to prepare for dire straits. Expect elbowing journalists, a table and chair shortage and nothing but the unexpected.

Plug sockets, WiFi, and a minute to yourself were luxuries that the election did not have to offer.

It was to be bedlam, so I was told. But I slowly realised that it was quite the opposite.

The WIFI was impeccable, the temperatures were optimal, and the sockets were plentiful.

As I gazed down to the major hall, likened to a mart set-up, sectioned by agricultural-spec fencing – candidates stood around gripping clip boards with white knuckles.

Brows furrowed, lips pursed, and eyes squinted, they gathered predictions in an assiduous manner.

Their body language resembled that of a long-in-the-tooth football manager talking tactics on the side-line. And as the day unfolded, this comparison only grew more apparent.

Statistics, strategies and strops could all be found within the confines of Omagh Leisure Complex

Sinn Féin played a blinder, claiming four of the six seats in West Tyrone – a party on the offensive, they scored a hat-trick of seats in Omagh Town the next day – much to the dismay of the UUP who lost out.

The DUP got the job done, putting in a solid performance and making their presence known – but very much on the defensive.

It was all go, and it was all great. I had got into the swing of it and was finally in the election sweet spot.

One could even say I was in my element – really coming into my own – until around the 12th working hour, I died a slow death.

That jaunty journalist had now reached her delirious demise.

The doors, once heavy, were now hulking. The announcements once loud, were now thundering and the walk to the major hall once manageable was now gruelling.

Us journalists were like a horde of zombies – pasty and pale faced, droopy eyed and unable to muster any verbal response other than grunts and groans.

And as we shuffled our way around the building in fleets, we were hungry for news.

With an appetite for the results of Mid Tyrone – we craved to know whose transfers were given to who and who would prevail.

Emmet McAleer showed great perseverance. And while he stood fixed, arms folded, glaring at his votes being counted for the entirety of the day, like many other anxious candidates – his result was not a favourable one in the end.

Bernard McGrath slipped into the lead in extra time and claimed that victory.

Friday coming to a drawn-out conclusion, was thrilling all in all.

I hopped into the car heading homebound, to do it all again the next day.

And to my delirium-ridden mind I sang ‘Walking on Sunshine’ by Katrina and the Waves note perfect.

On reflection, it may have resembled a cat being dragged through a bagpipe.