I did mean to stay up all night, I really did.

But I am weak. By 2am I am passed out on the sofa, snoring, surrounded by empty beer bottles and flattened packets of crisps.

I'd like to think Dig might find that sight arousing. But he had taken one look at the exit polls at 10pm then taken to his bed, saying that years of political experience told him things were not likely to change much, so you get your hung parliament, well done, goodnight, see you in the morning.

I wake myself up with my own throat rattling about 2.30, catch an eyeful of Andrew Neil and am immediately up and alarmed, like something horrible has happened to his face! Why is it all red and lumpy like an old foam pillow? I'm sure it wasn't like that at 1am, and maybe something totally wild happened while I'm asleep, like he and Peter Mandelson had a raging fist fight over who ate the last pork pie.

I spend a good ten minutes trying to work that out, but everyone in the BBC is behaving normally, like no-one mentions the punch up, so maybe I dreamed it. Then I began to dream of bed, and that seemed good.

I really wanted to see slimeball Balls stand up and face the baying hordes, so I'm cross at my own lack of stamina. I'll be kind to myself. Maybe the infill line of political interviewing over how to solve the international debt crisis overwhelmed me. Especially as the political commentators were Joan Collins' uplifted cheekbones, Bruce Forsyth's deceased hairpiece and Fern Britton's used gastric band.

So I woke this morning and there it was, a hung parliament, which is what I wanted. For the whole bunch of them to be so busy crawling around their own innards that they leave me alone to get on with my life. I guess they now do all the manoeuvring for power - not for themselves you understand - but in the national interest. Don't tell them that my interest right now is to enjoy the thought of them all floundering around some slimy length of intestine somewhere hoping to grab onto a floating bit of spaghetti.

And of course I discover on waking that BullyBoyBalls isn't Portillo. I am in mourning. That was so close, and I think there should be a recount, with all the people who couldn't vote going round to Morley and Outwood and voting there. It could just change that outcome.

But now it's all done and dusted. Apart from like, er, who governs. Yet there is one burning question left for me in this strange hanging-about-the-radio day. And that is how do those BBC presenters keep up all night? Are they taking something? I want some of that. There's Dimbleby and he must be aged over 70 and he can keep going all night. Why doesn't he fall facestraightdown into his papers zzzzzzzzzz at 3am?

Next time, whatever he's having, I want some in my beer.