Tuesday night goes down in my personal All-Time Surreal Moments record book:
Singing The Star Spangled Banner, full-throated and proud in a pub in Belfast in front of a bunch of cheering Irishmen, waiting for Pennsylvania to come in.
Later that night, 3:00 AM, alone with a bottle of Famous Grouse in my bedroom in a bedsit on the other side of town, standing in front of the little TV mounted on the wall, holding on to the television with both hands, rocking back and forth and whispering to the screen,
"Come on. Come on, Florida. Come on Ohio. Come on."
And then waking to find we won, hallelujah, and I had hugely overslept and was about to miss my flight to London.
Thanks to a fearless and possibly unhinged taxi-driver I made the flight and then spent the day in Heathrow buying every paper they sold, reading the first two pages, weeping quietly to myself, a strange, unshaven figure stalking Terminal 3, the American abroad, just wanting to get back home.
Swing State Cabaret rocked, well done to all.
And well done, Mr. President-elect.