More here.

Fame may deal an inconsistently fleeting hand to practitioners of TV and politics, but when both worlds collide you see stardom at its most ephemeral. Who remembers the likes of Ian Lang, Linda Chalker and Rosie Barnes today? Who could identify a picture of Bryan Gould, a man once touted as Britain’s next prime minister? And whatever happened to John Selwyn Gummer?

IThe General Election of 1992 might not rate as one of the most seismic of the 20th century, but it was certainly one of the most transitional. Whole generations of faces, forces and ideas were in flux at that time, and to watch again the 14 hours of results coverage hailing from those (depending on your view) grim or glorious days was to see the fabric of political history unravel and reform before your eyes.

Such forces were in evidence inside the BBC studio as well. For the first time since rationing there was no Robin Day ready to perform his “usual humble function”; instead, Peter Sissons manned the guest pod, visibly and audibly determined to make a strong impression. David Dimbleby and Peter Snow were present, naturally, as were (reprising their roles from 1987) Tony King and John Cole. But tacked on the end of the row was Peter Kellner, another wonk, whose role seemed to consist solely of robbing airtime from Tony and John to pass their kind of analysis off as his own.

In the event, all three were strangely underused – a case of too many cooks, especially when quite enough pot-stirring was going on out in the field. For an exit poll had predicted a hung parliament, which meant we were in for “one of the most dramatic and exciting election nights since the war.” But if this would turn out to be somewhat far from the BBC’s estimation, then the ensuing coverage would begin somewhat far from David’s expectation.

“I can’t believe nothing’s happening … we’re having to wait an awful long time for results … almost midnight and just four declarations …” His complaints pulsed on. The high turnout (77%) had delayed any sort of tide of results until the early hours. It meant that the levels of tension surrounding the outcome were prolonged beyond anyone’s anticipation – as was the need for David and his team to pad out proceedings.

Neither made for particularly absorbing television. Pointless shots from the BBC helicopter above John Major’s Huntingdon constituency showing complete blackness were followed by pointless shots of a brass band playing in a city square somewhere in Manchester. “While the nation has been deciding between parties, we’ve been having a party of our own,” explained Jill Dando half-heartedly, which turned out to mean Rory Bremner. “Unlike Jason Donovan, it still could go both ways,” he mugged as “Peter Snow” before adding, predictably, “it’s just a bit of fun.”

Meanwhile Michael Buerk waited by Paddy Ashdown’s house in Yeovil, wondering if the Lib Dem leader “had a pocket calculator to hand” and noting “there’s a public telephone box conveniently just outside.” Jeremy Paxman did the same thing in Neil Kinnock’s constituency of Islwyn, wearing a hideous lemon raincoat.

Relief came in the form of “an old friend”, as David dubbed it: the much-vaunted re-appearance of the swingometer, heralded with a clip from its last outing in 1979. “Thanks Harry!” cried Peter Snow to an unseen stagehand as the giant pendulum swung down from the heavens. Here was the biggest turn of the night, the star of that week’s Radio Times front cover and without a doubt the finest example of what David patronisingly dubbed “election wizardry” for many a year. Clear, comprehensive and entertaining, the swingometer and associate spin-offs were all a joy to watch, even if their messages were, for a time, muddled.

The forecasts were already being revised by the point the first result finally arrived – not, as was planned for, from Kate Adie and her “furious fingers” in Torbay, but Sunderland South. The good people of Torbay had nonetheless erected a large sign atop their stage proclaiming “ENGLISH SPOKEN HERE”. David tried repeatedly to get Kate to explain this, but to no avail. Over at Basildon there was “no sign of Anna Ford at all,” but there was the sight of David Amess defying the odds, the polls and the pundits to hold his seat and therefore portend Tory victory. “I’m reminded very strongly of 1987″ conceded Tony, just as Mrs Thatcher made her first appearance of the night, emerging out of the gloom to warn Charles Wheeler, “Careful you don’t slip – have a nice sleep!”

By now Vivian White could detect “a most delicious sense of tension at Conservative Central Office.” Results began to trickle in. The constituency of Hyndburn appeared, labelling itself “AT THE HEART OF LANCASHIRE’S HILL COUNTRY”. “Putney is never going to go back to the Labour Party,” forecast David Mellor. Frank Dobson, gossiping with Sue Cook at Labour’s official “victory” party, still cautioned, well, caution. As did every single Labour MP interviewed, despite John Cole astutely observing how “people of a Conservative turn of mind” were making their presence felt despite having previously masked it from the pollsters.

At 1am finally – thankfully – everything picked up. Norman Lamont used his victory speech to apologise to his rival Monster Raving Loony Party candidate for “not giving him a lift when his car broke down in front of me.” Tony concluded the Tories had won. “All your predictions are turning out wrong,” snapped Malcolm Rifkind. David spotted “Chris Patten’s wife, Lavender.”

John Smith reckoned we were “still in a cliffhanger situation,” despite Peter Snow now forecasting, for the first time, a proper Conservative majority. “Come along, please!” ordered the returning officer before announcing Party Chairman Chris Patten’s defeat. The camera cut to other Tory politicians listening in. “It’s written on their faces – Lavender Patten there,” noted David again.

This was clearly, from the BBC’s point of view, the biggest sellable story of the night – the man who had mastermind a national victory but lost his own seat in the process. Reams of Conservative ministers queued up to share their condolences. People speculated on how quickly he could be got back into the Commons. Michael Heseltine wouldn’t say. John Cole wouldn’t guess. David Dimbleby merely spied, “Chris Patten’s wife, Lavender.”

Elsewhere, Labour had as good as conceded defeat. David thought Neil Kinnock was “tired looking”. Peter Sissons wondered if “Labour will ever win an election under the current system”. Jeffery Archer turned up with an explanation for the Tories’ fortunes: “People have been coming up and saying, we’re very angry with you Jeffrey.” “Not you personally?” qualified Peter. The BBC helicopter, still gamely hovering in a cloud of darkness, attempted to show John Major leaving for London. “I dunno whether you can see him,” mused David. “I certainly can’t.”

Famous names flashed past. Colin Moynihan, once the subject of a thousand alternative comedy jokes, lost his seat. A “quiz show host in the cardigan,” won Chester. This turned out to be Gyles Brandreth, or as David pronounced it, Gyles Brand Reth. Then Mrs Thatcher reappeared, looming out of the mire, muttering still of how “Winston carried on … I enjoy a party … everything will be conserved … 13 years …”

Vivian White remained alert down at Conservative Central Office. Party workers held up placards that spelled out “JM IS PM”. “JM will be PM,” Vivian corrected. John Wakeham revealed he’d written the final result on a piece of paper “last Friday.” “Have you got it with you, in your pocket?” Vivian pressed. David Mellor waved to the crowd. There was no applause. Inside Patten addressed the faithful. “In four or five year time we can make it five in a row,” he vowed. “Five more years! Five more years!” came the cry.

This was all too much for James Cox up in the BBC Scotland studio. “You just had a Tory majority printed across your head,” japed David mid-handover. “How terrible,” hissed James. Dawn broke. Having made the decision to stay on the air through to 6am, the BBC now had to find things to fill it. We learned John Prescott had snapped his two front teeth on some toffee his wife had left for him in the fridge. “We send our commiserations,” mugged David. Tony King complained about the campaign having too much razzamatazz. Ben Elton looked in from the depleted Labour Party bash. “I’ve been glued to the coverage watching David do his impartial thing, as he always does,” he whined.

As John Major began to speak at Conservative Central Office, the picture quality started flickering between full colour and grey. “A slight element of Spitting Image entering our screens,” David quipped. Three people, John Major, his wife and Chris Patten, then appeared at a window. “Three of them, at the window,” said David. It was time for breakfast. The familiar long list of credits crawled by to the sounds of Bruce Dickinson and Mr Bean’s I Wanna Be Elected. Footage from the song’s video was spliced together with images from the night including someone falling over and someone kissing their wife. It wasn’t the most dignified of exits.

9.30am found Michael Foot in a big woolly jumper, Jennie Bond outside the Kinnocks’ house in Ealing (“He must be bewildered”) and a Palace of Westminster shrouded in morning mist. The air was ripe with outrageous forecast and shameless score-settling. Shirley Williams expected “proportional representation within two years”; Rhodes Boyson informed Tony Banks, “You’ll have grown a beard” by the time Labour ever win power; Dennis Skinner complained about “having come up to Leeds, through heavy traffic” only to get interrupted by David.

Time dragged. The fact no party had yet secured an outright majority proved to be no guarantor of the kind of fevered plotting that enveloped the closing hours of both 1974 elections. Here it was obvious the Tories had won and nothing would change that.

And so, for want of much else to do, everyone quibbled and argued and blamed the media for anything they could think of. Hugely earnest debates about electoral reform and political re-alignment rumbled back and forth, the like of which would have sent even Robert MacKensie running for cover behind a cup of tea and a bun in the BBC canteen. There was no ceremonial trip to Buckingham Palace for, as David obtusely explained, the PM “already has the Queen’s commission”. There wasn’t even the usual cluster of declarations from Northern Ireland to wait for, some jobsworth having decided to stubbornly fall in line and count votes the same time as the rest of the UK.

Peter Sissons entertained a panel of “Tory grandees”, including a visibly eroding Nicholas Ridley, followed by one of “Tory youngsters”, a frankly fraudulent way of introducing the likes of John Redwood and Virginia Bottomley. Of Angela Rumbold he ventured the question, “Should there be a ministry for women?” to which the reply came: “Certainly not.”

There wasn’t really need to carry on broadcasting until 4pm. All the business of the day was over just after lunch, when John Major took a turn around Downing Street. “He’s left his soapbox behind for now,” noted Martyn Lewis stupidly. “I wonder when we’ll see it again?” So a distracted David resorted to first asking John Cole, “Have you anything at all to say about anything?” then taking idle potshots at the opposition, accusing ITN of calling results based on “assumptions, not facts”. Later still, everyone started counting numbers in their head before “all of us round the table” spotted the Tories had actually bagged the largest number of votes cast (13.9m) for any one single party ever. Up in Manchester Rory Bremner did a gag about Gordon Brown’s mouth.

Finally, after quite possibly two dozen more shots of the “girls at the phone banks”, the end was at hand. “Sadly I’ve no figures for the Natural Life Party,” David fluffed during his sign-off. Peter, Tony and John remained mute, as they had for most of the previous 14 hours. The closing credits evaporated as soon as they could. It was a strangely unspectacular finale to a confoundingly spectacular occasion.

At least they got the exit poll right. At the start of the coverage, David Dimbleby announced that the Conservatives were going to win the General Election with a majority of 146. At the end of the coverage, David Dimbleby announced that the Conservatives had won the General Election with a majority of 144.

The fact that the simple business of predicting an outcome was so prone to failure is something we’ve been able to appreciate over the past four years of BBC Parliament’s real-time replays of General Elections. With the poll from 1983 completing the set, we’ve now been able to see every election from the ’60s, ’70s and ’80s – three notable decades in political and television history.

It’s probably fair to say that 1983 was the first General Election coverage that bares some real similarity with what we get now. It was the first without the two mainstays of the Beeb’s election nights, David Butler having retired from the box – broadcasting on BBC radio for this election – and Bob McKenzie having died some 18 months previously. A now-beknighted Robin Day was still there, and indeed referred to himself as, “a humble spear-carrier” in his introduction, as he would do again four years later. David Dimbleby hosted for the second time, and he was joined by a new face to the Corporation, Peter Snow, who took on Bob McKenzie’s old role.

Somewhat surprisingly there was no replacement for David Butler, and with only three presenters it was odd how they were lolling about in an enormous, sparse studio. David and Peter shared a long desk with a big screen between them with Robin to their left. For the first time, all the psephologists, including political editor John Cole, were hidden away backstage, to be brought out when required – which in Cole’s case wasn’t until 3.30am.

In addition, there was no wall of facts for Peter to run around in front of. The cardboard props, including the swingometer, had been traded in, for the first time, for computer graphics, but the technology didn’t exist to render these on a large scale so they were simply projected onto the monitor behind Peter, who stayed seated throughout. This robbed quite a lot of energy from proceedings, but on the plus side the graphics remained simple, clear and concise (apart from the Golden Shot-inspired Tory target board that seemed to confuse everyone), thanks presumably to the excitingly-named Monotype International, who were thanked in the credits for their “typographical co-operation”.

Because the coverage hadn’t started until 10.40pm (Carrott’s Lib being screened after the polls had closed), it wasn’t long until the real action began. All there was time for was a convoluted explanation of the boundary changes and a trip down Downing Street with Esther Rantzen – who was able to introduce us to Wilberforce, the cat who supposedly lived at Number 10 – before we were already onto the first results. Selina Scott, in a floral frock, looked in from Guildford (after her then screen husband Frank Bough had done the same job in 1979), but it was a jumpsuited Valerie Singleton who had the honour of presiding over the first declaration from Torbay.

Apart from some excitement at the impressive Liberal support in the first few seats – leading to a slightly revised prediction – from that moment on the outcome looked inevitable and the actual results seemed to take a backseat to thoughts over the future of the Labour party and what sort of showing the SDP would get. Indeed, even before a single result had been declared, everyone seemed certain that Labour were doomed, David Steel claiming they were no longer, “a serious contender for government” and Robin Day discussing the presumably-soon-to-be-vacant leadership with Neil Kinnock.

It was fascinating to see some stalwarts of the ’60s and ’70s, such as Phillip Tibenham looking windswept in Penrith, Bernard Falk in a leather jacket in Liverpool, and Donny MacLeod in Inverness, alongside the debuts of some more familiar figures from today, like Jeremy Paxman, who interviewed Norman Tebbit in Chingford in front of some heaving bookshelves which looked seconds away from collapsing.

As ever seismic political moments jostled with minutiae from the period, including the revelation from David that Renee Short keeps poodles (Robin: “Can we talk about important things?”) and a visit to the same horrible ’80s shopping centre in Pendle we’d see again in 1987, this time with the declaration made in front of a branch of Carstuff.

Similarly, we got to see the debuts of numerous soon-to-be-big names in more auspicious circumstances, although the result from Sedgefield was simply flashed up on the screen. Ann Widdecombe came second to David Owen in Plymouth Devonport while Hilary Benn was unable to beat the Tory tide in Ealing North. Keith Vaz lost his deposit in Richmond while Virginia Bottomley failed to take the Isle of Wight, despite Thatcher having visited her on a hovercraft. Steven Norris, “an Audi car dealer”, did manage to get in at Oxford East, though.

At 12.30am, David introduced, for the first time, Tony King, billed as “a Canadian, like Bob McKenzie, sadly missed tonight”, who was let out of the backroom for a few moments throughout the night, this time pondering who might be the opposition in 1988. We also got the first of King’s winning similes, describing the Labour performance since 1966 as resembling “a tennis ball falling down the stairs”. Later King would say that this was the UK’s first “presidential election”, claiming that no voters ever thought Michael Foot made for a viable Prime Minister.

Despite this claim, however, much of the action during the night and the following day was anything but stage-managed. Michael Foot was doorstepped leaving his house – we were told to watch the results elsewhere as he didn’t have a television – and refused to give an interview, repeatedly claiming waiting until the results were announced was “the sensible thing to do”. The following day he refused again, again repeatedly announcing “it is only fair” that he didn’t speak to those journalists as he hadn’t spoken to any others.

Meanwhile, Mrs Thatcher left Downing Street to go to her count to a number of hollered questions from the waiting hacks, and she hollered some answers back, neither of which we got to hear, while Esther Rantzen’s commentary on this moment was, in its entirety, “Mrs Thatcher. Ha ha ha!” Nicholas Witchell was assigned to following Maggie around on the night, but didn’t seem to have much luck, with ITN’s Michael Brunson being that bit quicker with the mike and managing to get answers to his questions while Nick followed sheepishly behind. On the plus side, Geoffrey Howe’s declaration at Surrey East was held up because “we’re waiting for ITN”.

With the Tories safely back, and the prediction having shot back up to its original position, by 1am, it was time to look elsewhere, helped by the SDP’s entire Gang of Four getting their results one after the other. Roy Jenkins held on in Glasgow Hillhead to ceaseless and earsplitting heckling throughout the declaration and his speech, while after a dozy returning officer had finally got the figures right and given Labour 18,000 instead of 1800, Bill Rodgers lost Stockton North. David Owen won while Shirley Williams was out and all four looked on at each other’s declarations via split-screen, leading to discussion of virtually nothing but the future of the Alliance for about half an hour.

At 2.30am David referred to the election as “strange”, given that the Tories were heading for a massive landslide despite actually getting fewer votes than in 1979. With the Alliance enjoying plenty of second places, much time was spent discussing electoral reform, which you feel Bob McKenzie would have approved of. Fortunately Robin had Alan Beith, whose count wasn’t until Friday, as a virtual permanent sidekick throughout the evening, rebutting the arguments of both Labour and Conservative MPs.

Perhaps the biggest loser of the night turned out to be Nicholas Witchell, who found himself at Thatcher’s count in Finchley watching a door through which “Mrs Finchley” (as David memorably referred to her) failed to emerge for some time and, worse still, had Michael Brunson standing in front of it. Some expert flannelling from Nick followed, as he ran through the various fringe candidates standing against the PM – including the Belgrano Blood Hunters Party and the Law and Order in Gotham City Party, but not a bloke who’d changed his name to Margaret Thatcher, who’d been barred from standing – and even moved on to providing “some facts about Finchley”.

As we moved towards the end of the night’s coverage at 4am – which was to be followed by the film Crooks Anonymous – Esther interviewed some of the people hanging around outside Downing Street, first alighting on an old woman purely because of her “beautiful hat”, while we were treated to extended shots of a load of photographers’ backsides which, we were told, had Margaret Thatcher and Fred Emery somewhere the other side of them.

After a big long list of credits (featuring the likes of Jana Bennett and Lorraine Heggessey), the antics of Leslie Phillips and Stanley Baxter, some Ceefax and Breakfast Time, it was 10am and we were back with David, Peter and Donald MacCormack, who was filling in while Robin was off in Downing Street getting the first interview with the re-elected PM – though only, we were told, after they’d managed to win the toss with ITN. David buggered up his first link by suggesting we’d find out who would be contesting the election in 1888.

Val was also back, this time in a woolly jumper down the road in Truro, but surely the best combination of reporter and location in the morning shift was Bob Wellings at Greenham Common, with the great man managing to look urbane and aloof despite being in the middle of a gang of women singing protest songs. Bob rather tactlessly suggested that, given the Tories’ huge win, “unfortunately for you, your campaign is pointless”, to general uproar.

As with the previous night, many Beeb reporters found themselves embarrassing themselves in the rush to get in the thick of the action, with Michael Cole following David Steel down the road to his house only to find that he was actually walking to Alastair Stewart and an ITN camera crew to do an interview, while Cole’s cameraman fell over Steel’s dog to add to the chaos. Cole did manage to interview Steel a bit later though, and was even invited in, glass of wine in hand, to watch Steel carve a joint of lamb in a not-at-all-staged photo opportunity.

Nick Witchell could only look on from Downing Street as Thatcher enjoyed her lunch with, apparently, “Michael Parkinson”, a slip of the tongue that particularly amused David. Nick tried to follow her as she progressed down the row of well-wishers, only for his microphone cable to be shorter than he would have liked. His cameraman pressed on regardless while Nick frantically signalled for him to come back, until he had to physically grab him and point him in his direction.

The cameras also caught Roy Jenkins arriving at SDP HQ but couldn’t really see or hear him properly as he stood on the steps and eventually seemed to give up and zoomed out to get a long, lingering shot of Trevor McDonald chatting to his crew. Michael Foot entered and left Labour’s headquarters to much the same scrum of photographers who had obscured our view of Thatcher overnight, though Brian Hanrahan (who David couldn’t resist suggesting was going to “count them all in, and count them all out”) had the added complication of a load of inquisitive schoolkids between him and the Labour leader.

At 12.30pm we were able to enjoy a shambolic bulletin with a hapless Sandi Marshall, reading out the news of Tony Benn’s defeat twice in a row and then greeting the next still with silence before a voice could be heard whispering, “Page 39, page 39″. After that, and for the rest of the afternoon, the Labour and SDP post-mortems continued, interspersed with results from Northern Ireland. Robin tried to interview Kenneth Clarke on numerous occasions only to be continually interrupted by technical breakdowns, declarations and photocalls, while Neil Kinnock was asked where he was, and replied, “I’m in the offices of Islwyn Borough Council and behind me is a display of posters explaining the considerable advantages of relocating your industry to this borough.”

David interviewed a journalist down the line from Moscow who appeared not to have any opinion on the election at all (“A rather inconclusive conversation”, summarised a frustrated Dimbleby) but who mysteriously was unable to hear David when he mentioned rumours that Andropov was on his deathbed. Martin Bell, meanwhile, was turning his nose up at NBC’s coverage of the poll and its constant comparisons between the Conservatives and the Republicans.

Finally Michael Foot was put in front of a BBC camera, although as Vincent Hanna warned, “Mr Foot does not want to talk about the campaign but the events in Northern Ireland have compelled him to say something about something else”, and indeed Foot was able to speak, unchallenged, into the camera about his dismay at Gerry Fitt losing his Belfast West seat to Gerry Adams, after which he was thanked for appearing – an approach more suited to ’50s rather than ’80s elections.

Proceedings closed just before 4pm with the time-honoured Little Something The Backroom Boys Have Put Together, that being a musical montage of the night’s highlights backed with appropriate tunes – Tony Benn losing his seat to Hello Goodbye, Supertramp’s Dreamer accompanying shots of Michael Foot and Dr Kiss Kiss over a picture of David Owen kissing his wife. David followed it with the words, “I’m sorry about that”, referring, presumably, to his haphazard introduction and not his opinions on the piece.

Professor Ivor Crewe summed up the day’s events by saying it had been a wholly negative election with anyone who’d achieved anything doing so because the voters hated them less than the alternative – a rather sour note to end on. 23 years later, however, the coverage had been nothing but a joy from start to finish, regardless of your political persuasion.

Thanks to BBC Parliament’s latest vintage presentation, however, there’s a new contender for the crown. “A close run thing, a very exciting evening,” was David Dimbleby’s breathless opening gambit as he set out his stall from a distinctly underwhelming studio set minus all the multi-level gantries, whirring mechanoids and thronging foot soldiers we’re used to on these occasions. But before he’d even given us a chance to get used to this modest MFI ensemble, let alone meet the rest of the team, we were hit with the news that the BBC and Gallup were going for a Tory majority of 26.

This was a big deal: a substantial turnaround for the Government (with a previous majority of 144), and a slap in the face for opinion polls taken throughout the campaign which all pointed to a Conservative landslide. But David was adamant. This was how it was to be. Except “only if that calculation is absolutely right.” Then: “it’s only a guide, no substitute.” And then: “there is a margin of error, 2% either way.” It turned out this meant the actual Tory majority could by anywhere between 86 and minus 17. “It is going to be between those two points,” David pleaded. But it was no good. Even Peter Snow’s spinning CGI House of Commons couldn’t mask such a shameless hedging of bets. In less than two minutes the once-triumphant poll had been deliberated, dismissed and dumped. “Is it worth it?” David wondered meekly.

But if confidence had ebbed from the studio, exuberance certainly had not. In “glorious Technicolor” Peter unfurled his Election Battleground, a crisp, shimmering mural of graphics which, brilliantly, he had to operate using some fiddly, cumbersome buttons on the wall. It was an immediately eye-catching display, in telling contrast to the bulk of his recent toys which have become steadily less obvious and more flamboyant. Here we saw all the information in slick tables, colourful graphs and straightforward maps: the Beeb’s first, very tentative step into big screen election electronica, but in retrospect an unfussy, sensibly exciting shop window.

Also present was another face, still very much part of present day election programmes, Tony King, plus the then BBC political editor John Cole and, perched right on the end of the row in semi-splendid isolation, Sir Robin Day. Opening what would be his last election for the Beeb by trotting out his usual selfless introduction – “I am but a humble spear-carrier” – he proceeded to be completely confused by the number of monitors surrounding him. “I thought you were going to be behind me,” he babbled to Labour’s Jack Cunningham, “but you’re in front of me. Even better.”

This would be as close as we’d get to that sense, so familiar to these events, of things forever balancing on the edge of collective confusion and technological subsidence. As it was, with the entire production staff hidden from view behind the scenery, there was very little bustle and tension in the air. Indeed, an atmosphere of eerie calm pervaded the entire programme, even infecting the various political guests who exercised singularly less sound and fury than on previous occasions. Perhaps this was to do with the perceived inevitability of the outcome. Perhaps everyone was just exhausted from what many testified to being a very gruelling and bad-tempered campaign.

Still, that familiar awkward opening hour when not much happens passed fairly quickly, thanks chiefly to loads of zipping around the country giving an impression of a lot happening when in reality it was nothing of the sort. David Steel was in his conservatory in Ettrickbridge watching himself on television. “He’s not throwing in the sponge,” David observed. John Smith was down the line from Scotland explaining how exit polls “keeps programmes like this going and allows us to have interesting conversations.” Philip Hayton, meanwhile, was in Cheltenham with a room full of “fast fingers”, Margaret Gilmore had “the best counters in Devon” in Torbay, and Wesley Kerr looked in from Pendle in front of a branch of Supercigs.

Martyn Lewis read the news, including the result of the Newsround Extra election: a hung parliament. Given the kids had rustled up a verdict in 1983 remarkably similar to the real one, Martyn wondered if they’d do it again now. “They may get it righter than we will,” muttered David. “Heaven help us if we’re wrong!” “This is going to be a bit of fun,” cried Peter as he explained why the forecasts still offered a Tory majority of 26. “Fasten your seatbelts!” Finally we landed in Piccadilly Circus – not Trafalgar Square this time – where David promised us Esther Rantzen. Instead Gavin Campbell loomed into view in a three-piece suit, hailing us from “the dress circle to the bearpit”. Of all the hundreds milling about, he inevitably ended up talking to the most unforthcoming of characters, including two old Americans over on a visit and, as is dictated by election outside broadcast law, an inarticulate student.

At precisely 11pm the first result arrived from Torbay, a change from those perennial frontrunners of the 1960s and ’70s (Guildford, Cheltenham) and what we’re used to nowadays (Sunderland). The huge floral display bedecking the declaration platform could not distract from the fact the figures now suggested anything but a Tory majority of 26, let alone a hung parliament. Sure enough, we saw Peter instantly at work at his computer, furiously bashing at the keys to issue a revised forecast of 46. So began a pattern for the night as every half hour or so a further enlarged majority replaced the last and all thoughts of the exit poll were pushed further and further out of our minds. It was striking how nobody in the studio for a moment doubted the result – a Conservative Government – while those out on the constituency beat, even Tory politicians, refused to concede the obvious until well into the night. While David was brandishing a copy of the Sun – “MAGGIE THE THIRD” – and John Cole was reflecting on how one Tory MP was relaxing with his “feet in a mustard bath”, Labour’s Bryan Gould thought it much too early to comment and Mrs Thatcher herself, bumping into John Simpson on the steps outside her Finchley count, was only “cautiously optimistic”.

The Guildford and Basildon results confirmed the trend (the forecast majority now up to 58). “We have to eat all our words,” ruminated David, before pausing to acknowledge, “Mrs Thatcher is Mrs Thatcher”. At Cheltenham all the candidates had their backs to the camera, as if in a multilateral decision to divert attention to the giant hoardings above their heads: GARDEN TOWN OF ENGLAND. Indeed, as more declarations arrived a roster of slogans passed before our eyes, including Basildon’s tantalising IT’S COMING!, ARMADA 400 at Plymouth, and the thunderous WREXHAM: INDUSTRIAL MECCA OF THE NORTH. David disapproved of these “American” devices, and would spend some time the following morning moaning charmlessly about how the election had become too packaged and stylised, but along with Supercigs and a Holyhead shop front reading WEIGH TO SAVE!, these were the most evocative symbols of the entire broadcast.

Faces of the future jostled with those of the not-too-distant past. Paddy Ashdown in Yeovil shared details of some “TVS polls”. Peter Bottomley, “Minister of Roads”, jawed with Robin about landslides (forecast: 76). We saw Larry Adler and John Williams playing a desultory tune at Labour’s HQ, John Stapleton in huge Su Pollard-sized glasses talking to Ken Livingstone, David Blunkett with a black eye (“A door hit me”), and Esther – at last! – in Piccadilly Circus interviewing a woman wearing a Thatcher mask.

There were also glimpses of BBC stalwarts of yesteryear: Vincent Hanna looking battered at Neil Kinnock’s count in Islwyn; a dapper David Davis struggling to speak to David Owen in Plymouth; Adam Raphael hearing the “fizz going out” at Labour’s HQ; Hugh Scully giggling with Ted Heath; and Fred Emery, David Lomax and Michael Cockerill representing the real old guard. With such a multitude spread over such a disparate array of locations, it has to be said the technical quality of the programme was near-faultless, making for the smoothest and most accomplished of all the election repeats BBC Parliament have provided so far (including Election 97).

“I’m in the middle of eating a Mars bar,” choked David just after 1am, ensuring at least one moment of indiscipline would pass into the annals. “Let’s go to Sheffield Brightside while I swallow it.” The result from Anglesey prompted Peter to recite the longest station name in Britain (“Llanfairpwyllgwyngwll …”), John lamented “a more divided Kingdom”, Robin observed that John Prescott “looked a bit wilted” and the forecast reached 94 (“A cracking majority”, according to David). The speed at which the declarations now toppled in was another marked difference to other archive efforts. Within a couple of hours around 400 had arrived, giving proceedings a great momentum and a cracking pace – except when Robin decided to indulge himself, of course, in another particularly wry and lugubrious exchange. Ted Heath: “I’m not bothered about you! I’m still sitting in my chair.” Robin: “Yes, I know that! Where were we? You’re looking very fit.” Ted: “I’ll see you again on Monday.”

It was somewhat bad timing that when the Tories notched up 326 seats – and therefore an overall majority – the BBC’s cameras were in the middle of Ken Livingstone’s victory speech. The news flashed up on the giant display in Piccadilly Circus. “The word ‘MAIDEN’ at the top of that screen is quite irrelevant,” drawled David with reference to the advertiser’s name, while down below Esther had vanished leaving Gavin “in the drizzle” to deal with two inconsolable Labour supporters. “A couple of differing views there,” he concluded, wrongly. A mood of inquiry was already underway in the studio, with guest after guest banging on about the North-South divide, two nations, “loony Leftism” and defence policy. Even the experts advanced pointedly partisan analysis, John as good as predicting that Labour were “never going to win” and Tony declaring, not for the last time, that the Tories were set to rule “into the next millennium”. “If you’ve just happened to come in,” began David at 2.50am, the forecast was now a majority of 104.

Coverage continued until 4am, self-consciously winding down in a manner befitting one of the few elections in the last 50 years where the result was done and dusted before the sun rose. This meant more time for Robin to indulge in expansive debates (referred to as “Talks” in the credits) and unintentional pops at David, at one point referring to him as “Richard … I’m sorry, it’s back to 1964!” David returned the favour as he was signing off, observing that the great behemoth, slumped in his chair, was “already sound asleep.” “I’m not asleep, I’m not asleep,” barked Robin, “I’m just waiting until you finish rabbitting on.” There was just room for a look in at Tory central office – “gay scenes, or perhaps I should say lively scenes” noted David, anxiously – and the city of London, which had apparently been “open all night”. Peter recounted the events of one last time in succinct and effective fashion (“I think you’re going to be lonely without that battleground,” cooed David) before we got a long list of credits and another airing for Rick Wakeman’s majestic choral-enhanced theme.

Jumping forward to 9am the following morning, we found David sporting exactly the same suit, shirt and polka dot tie as before, which just seemed lazy. Peter had changed, sensibly, into a more relaxed, light-coloured affair, but Robin had opted for a dreadfully tatty khaki outfit, which looked hopelessly inappropriate later on when he was interviewing Mrs Thatcher inside Downing Street. 55 results were still to come, but there was the predictably long wait before anything happened, making for a lot of waffle and waxing lyrical. Fortunately help was at hand courtesy of a special airship the BBC had chartered for no reason whatsoever and which was transmitting “spectacular views” over London. David was so taken by this blimp he kept cutting to it relentlessly, as if not just presenting but directing the programme in person, at one point announcing “Let’s leave Northern Ireland for a moment and go up into our airship … that’s a beautiful view … trees green …”

Caught up in a romantic reverie, he promised we’d be talking to “our allies in Germany”. Instead we learned from Vincent Hanna of how Neil Kinnock had spent much of the morning “watching Breakfast Time“, glimpsed David Steel in a bright yellow Alliance-embossed sweater, saw Jeremy Paxman take temporary residency of Robin’s booth while he went off to Downing Street, and witnessed Julia Somerville conduct an interview with Norman St John Stevas with her hands in her jacket pockets the whole time. “God is a Conservative,” observed Norman. “God is not a man who believes in proportional representation,” replied Julia, pointlessly.

News updates popped up every hour from Moira Stuart, though these were cut out of this re-run, while Professor Ivor Crewe alternated shifts with Tony King to continually pick over the results. Time did drag between the big set pieces, and proceedings never really recovered any momentum. All the same it was entertaining watching the rigmarole of the aftermath, including a Clive James-esque link up with a “commentator” in Moscow whose earpiece didn’t work, Guy Michelmore with a load of businessmen at the Austin Rover plant in Birmingham, Steve Bradshaw doing vox pops in Grantham (“What’re we talking about?” snapped an old woman before walking off), and shots of Tom King MP being carried in a chair through the streets of Bridgwater.

Asked by Robin Day to speculate on whether she’d still be PM in 2000, Mrs Thatcher replied she could well be “twanging a harp” by then, which prompted David to remark on how at least she was “absolutely convinced she’s going to heaven one day!” to huge laughter from the rest of the studio. When Robin arrived back the japery continued, David pretending not to notice he’d returned because “normally we can tell when you’re here as there’s a great noise going on.” “Do keep quiet for a moment,” hissed Robin. It’s this incidental, throwaway business that counts for just as much as all the melodrama and hyperbole in BBC election results programmes, and here as ever we weren’t disappointed.

By the time 4pm came round and the end was in sight, it’d been many hours since anybody had even alluded to that original exit poll. It really was spectacularly inaccurate, the final Tory majority of 102 not even falling within what had been essayed a distinctly generous margin of error. Instead, people were more preoccupied with having the last word, invariably a convoluted or meaningless one, or in David’s case taking a final ride “on our magic carpet … there are the buildings of the city of London … some of them graceful, some of them not … where the yuppies live.” After 13 hours of broadcasting, he was happy to be soaring far above the murmur and the mêleé, even though, as Peter poetically observed at his Battleground, “the smoke has cleared.”

Every General Election gets dressed up as a “moment of history”, but Election ’87, with its heady brew of old names and faces, and new styles and techniques, was a true moment of television history. Seeing it again 18 years on, those feelings were no less strong and just as irresistible.

For some, these events have undoubtedly become as much a high point in the TV calendar as the double issue Christmas Radio Times or the return of Blue Peter from its Summer Expedition. This was the third time BBC Parliament had used the occasion of the party conference season to turn over its weekend to an unfettered slab of glorious telly history, and as ever it didn’t disappoint. Viewers were able to re-live minute by minute the return match of precisely what the channel broadcast 12 months ago: the same faces, the same issues, and no less grave an atmosphere. If anything things seemed to have got worse, judging by the way Alastair announced, “this is an hour of greatest importance to our country – our futures depend on it.”

Despite reports, the Beeb kept the scenery from the February Election ’74 in storage ready for a speedy return to the hustings, what we got here was a somewhat re-modelled set, albeit decked out in grey tones and operating on the usual vast number of different levels and platforms. There were nicely British Telecom-esque fonts everywhere, Bob had an entire wall of charts to play with (though his swingometer was again relegated to the status of a half-hearted deskbound toy) while Robin had been awarded perhaps his largest “pod” to date: nothing less than an entire flank of the studio, shamelessly constructed higher up than everybody else, blessed with its own staff in the shape of a silhouetted long-haired woman who shuffled papers mysteriously. Alastair helmed everything in front of a giant scoreboard, with David on his left and Bob on his right. Brilliantly, each had their own bank of black and white monitors.

The long wait for the first result afforded plenty of opportunity for our hosts to set out their stall. For Alastair this meant an obsession with checking his watch but never telling us the time, and referring to the election as if it were a horse race, repeatedly talking about “form”, checking the latest from the bookies (“You have to put five pounds down to win one pound”) or handing over to Julian Wilson at William Hill for the odds. While this was initially mildly diverting, the business with the watch quickly became irritating, especially as Alastair continued to do it right through the night and the following morning, as if he couldn’t wait to be somewhere else and was thoroughly sick of how long it was all taking. The talk about betting was then later taken up by Robin who joked with Ian Mikardo MP about running “the worst odds in the business” and even offered union boss Clive Jenkins “three to one in favour of our staying in the Common Market.”

Away from the studio, a battery of reporters were perched on assorted balconies overlooking assembly halls around the country. Esther Rantzen waited at Guildford for the “nimble and dexterous” counters to ensure they were the first to declare. Michael Charlton, our “indicator” in Huyton as Alastair put it, brought news of Harold Wilson’s red rosette “glowing like a traffic light”. Some, like Philip Tibenham in Lincoln and Jake Kelly in Blyth, were still in black and white, a reminder of how all the Beeb’s colour cameras were deployed in areas presumably deemed more important. One of them was in Trafalgar Square, where we found, as usual, Desmond Wilcox, “as much a part of the scene as Nelson and the lions,” claimed Alastair. “Very funny,” Desmond sniffed, recalling how in February the power cuts had meant the place was in darkness. “At least we can now see how uncomfortable we are.” 40 seconds later he was gone, and bizarrely we never saw him again. His future missus, however, still had far more to say. Guildford was now “getting a bit hot … suspense-full and perspiring.”

One other character completed the line-up: ERIC, the resident results processing machine, which, with “staggering” speed, prepared on-screen breakdowns of declarations in 45 seconds. To prove this, a very glossy short film fronted by Sue Lawley followed ERIC, or Electronic Results Instant Computer, on a test run. “There’s no time for hellos,” underlined Sue as an assistant took a call from a reporter, read out some numbers and “another girl called a runner” found the relevant paperwork. The clock ticked, fantastic tension-building music played, and sure enough the result was on screen within the deadline, at which point we saw Tam Fry, the results editor, blowing Sue a kiss.

ERIC more than deserved such a build up, as when the results did start coming in there were no major gaffes, delays or technical breakdowns. Instead it would be the prediction, rather than the presentation, of information that became the team’s bugbear. “I think it’s a good idea that we keep it open,” muttered Alastair pointlessly, before moaning about how Bernard Levin had criticised him for saying “it’s all to play for” too much during the February transmission. He then asked Bob to explain “differential floatback.” Unsurprisingly it was ERIC, not Alastair, who was being namechecked when we glimpsed foreign journalists transmitting to their own countries.

Guildford won the race to declare, with Esther suitably agog: “We are the first!” Julian Pettifer seemed less confident about things in Cheltenham, conceding it had been a Tory seat “as far back as I’ve been able to check,” while Brian Ash was more preoccupied by the “nubile young ladies carrying bits of paper” around the Wolverhampton count. The familiar collection of befuddled returning officers began to struggle in the heat of the moment, one barking into his microphone “Is this working? Come over here. Can I have quiet please? Quiet please!” and another protesting, “Can I have a little bit of order … oooh, wait a minute!” A very young-looking Margaret Jackson (later Beckett) won a monochrome Lincoln, and Brian Walden was announced the victor of Birmingham Ladywood to a room full of people chatting.

By now the talk in the studio couldn’t avoid the reality that, as Bob observed, smiling to himself, “the polls are having a bad night.” Forecasts of a hundred seat Labour win were hastily revised downwards. Graham Pyatt wielded the same scroll of coloured paper he’d brandished in February to demonstrate how nobody was sure if anyone would have a majority. But while Bob and David were clearly enthralled by the tense situation, Alastair just looked increasingly annoyed, lapsing into oddly partial comments (one Liberal MP was out of the Commons “only temporarily”, another was lucky to not have “so many nutcases” as challengers) and referring to results from safe seats with a terse “nothing much to say about these” and “none of them particularly interesting”. Robin, meanwhile, ploughed on regardless, quizzing an endless procession of ancient peers, and effortlessly dealing with David Steel chiding him about getting his name wrong: “I was very tired that night, and I had got three pictures on a monitor at once … what was your name again?!”

Once Wilson and Heath had won their seats, the latter being welcomed to the declaration – according to David Dimbleby – with a cry of “hello, sailor!”, both gave long interviews that merely fuelled the sense of everything being in limbo until some point the following afternoon. So began a long slog of speculation that persisted to the end of the night. Bob aired his trademark feelings about the hopelessness of the British electoral system – “grossly unfair” – and the importance of proportional representation, before using toddler’s building bricks to show how a “tiny ripple” of change had run across the country. A Warhol-styled mural of multiple Harold Wilson faces appeared on the wall. Given he’d clearly been looking forward to it for so long, it was ironic Alastair bungled his sign-off at 4am by announcing, “we say good morning – we’ll be back with a breakfast programme later.”

For BBC Parliament this meant a jump to 7.30am, and the welcome sight of a relaxed, amiable Michael Barratt at the main desk. Although already halfway through his stint in charge, there was still a fine 90 minutes of his company to go, and it proved a refreshing diversion from Alastair’s pomposity and the general air of despondency. Aside from Mike’s Nationwide-style “dashing” around numerous OBs, including an encounter with a dog covered in Plaid Cymru stickers, various lighter-side-of-the-election features ensued. These included Brian Widlake’s encounter with Katina the astrologist (“It’s not a crystal ball – I study the patterns of planets”) who predicted a Liberal Government as early as 1980 and observed how Jeremy Thorpe’s star chart explained “why he likes the ladies so much”. Kenneth Kendall read the news (“In Northern Ireland, a night of violence”), Michael Fish summarised the weather, Sue Lawley ran through some notable lost deposits (including Dr Una Kroll, a Women’s Rights candidate, “a very brave lady”), and we saw a tantalising glimpse of Richard Stilgoe sitting at a huge white grand piano. Sadly his moment for a suitably wry song or two must have already come and gone.

Esther was back, though, out and about in “the city” attracting a band of curious OAPs as if doing a That’s Life! vox pop. “This lady works in the city,” she explained. “I’m in charge of the lady cleaners,” her subject clarified, “I’d like to see the city a bit happier.” “You get tired of all these sad faces?” noted Esther neutrally. “Very.” Keith Graves at Transport House was less ebullient, proclaiming, “anyone with any sense is still in bed.” The mood shifted again come 9am, when Mike had to “gather up all my rubbish from this desk” to make way for Alastair once more, who we saw loitering in an ungainly fashion to one side, as if desperate to sit down.

Another very long wait for results was in order, encouraging Bob to cut loose – “It’s going to be a hard day’s night!” – and David, who’d been there ever since 6am, to reminisce about his time monitoring the recent election in Australia. We glimpsed Michael Charlton on the steps of the Adelphi Hotel in Liverpool, commenting on Wilson’s departure. “He’s had about three hours sleep,” Michael noted, at which point Wilson leaned over and added, “I don’t think you’ve had that much more, Michael!” Back in London Robin seemed to be in the same condition, arriving in an extremely tetchy mood (“You said some of the things I was hoping to say Alastair, but no matter”) then, having “been sitting here rather impatiently”, launching into an attack on the opinion polls. “You’re getting a little tired,” mocked Bob. “You’re not talking to your students now,” snapped Robin.

The argument that followed was all somewhat incongruous – imagine David Dimbleby, Peter Snow and Andrew Marr shouting at each other – and Alastair singularly failed to keep matters under control. It was difficult, though, to have any sympathy for him. By this point it was clear he held the title for the most unimpressive election anchor the Beeb have ever employed, if only because of his inability to project the same infectious enthusiasm and obvious passion for his task that was so palpable in Cliff Michelmore and both Richard and David Dimbleby. But then, at the very moment results started coming in again, BBC Parliament was pulled off the air by the Telewest network (a regular occurrence), meaning at least one viewer was unable to see the outcome and had to go and look it up in a book. In case you missed it, Labour won.

The story of the coverage had been a dramatic shift in expectation, from David’s talk of “three-figure majorities” to whether Labour would retain a lead at all. The speed at which everyone forgot their initial grandstanding was notable – an early “how did you vote?” poll turned out to be so inaccurate it was simply never mentioned again. But the fact we’d had the chance to watch other archive results programmes meant the constant talk of similarities with February 1974, and of 1964, had that much more resonance and meaning.

All this was genuinely gripping, but the main fascination lay, as it has always done during these glimpses into another TV age, in the detail: the gossipy asides and laconic observations from the presenters, reporters and guests; the attempts at jokes or whimsy; the things that go wrong – in short, that which must have been ordinary to viewers then, but which seems extraordinary to us now. People smoking on camera, the sound of jangling telephones cutting across Alastair or David mid-flow, Bob munching a chicken drumstick: this is what we wait for in the BBC’s archive results programmes, and fortunately once again the gang delivered.

So next up came the poll of 28 February 1974. This was a rather different programme to the 1970 results service, though, and perhaps one of the most unusual election nights of all. The most obvious change came with the presenter, as Cliff Michelmore had retired from current affairs to enjoy the more relaxing surroundings of Holiday. In his place came Alastair Burnet – a rare chance to see the distinguished ITV newsman during his short spell at the BBC. Alastair was, unsurprisingly, rather less whimsical than Cliff, but certainly had gravitas and was able to make some sense of the night’s more confusing aspects.

Another unusual aspect of this poll was that boundary changes had meant many constituencies had completely changed since 1970. This led to such situations as the sitting MPs for Brentford and Isleworth both fighting it out to win the newly-merged constituency of Brentford And Isleworth. Therefore analysis was more complex than usual; rather than being told that the parties had held a seat, we were often told they had “held” them – that is, compared to what the results would have been had the 1970 poll been held with the same constituencies. As the night went out, this complicated a confusing situation still further.

But the most unusual aspect was that this was a very low-key election. Polling was carried out to a backdrop of industrial unrest, with regulations forcing TV to close down at 10.30pm only just having been lifted. With a miners’ strike still going on, Ted Heath had called the election to gain “a vote of confidence” from the public to his policies. Given this backdrop, it was unsurprising that the whole coverage was rather more serious than 1970 – less whimsy and less silliness, with all aware that the night’s events could have a huge effect on the state of the nation. There was certainly no room for the election night disco this time round.

Still, it all got off to an exciting start – Fanfare For The Common Man heralding a zoom around the studio, with the scoreboards whirring round and the legend “CON LAB LIB?” emblazoned across the screen. The set was much smaller, though – that said, given the size of the 1970 set, an aircraft hangar would have been “much smaller” by comparison – with Bob McKenzie’s swingometer sitting on his desk like an executive toy, and other graphics being picked up from the floor where they sat at his feet. Alastair set the scene by announcing that tonight we’d find out who would be running the country for at least “the next few weeks” – given that the polls had suggested that this would be one of the closest elections for many years.

There was still time for a bit of fun, though – most notably thanks to Mike Yarwood, live in the studio to recite monologues in the guise of Harold Wilson and Ted Heath. These were accompanied by gales of laughter from the crew, and shots of Alastair awkwardly laughing, but made rather less sense three decades on. Meanwhile Desmond Wilcox found himself among the thronging masses in Trafalgar Square again, and he was having fun, at one point grabbing some punters to speak and quipping, “I’ve handled more people tonight than Bruce Forsyth!” Yet some of this seemed at odds with the more serious aspects of the first hour, such as Tom Mangold at a Miners’ Welfare Club – “I’m sure they won’t mind me calling them the most militant and bloody-minded miners in the country” – overseeing an extended bout of shouting (“If I can come in here, Mr Interviewer, you’re quite wrong”) and finger-waggling.

This was an impressive effort for the era, with Alastair boasting that they had 76 camera crews out in the field, the most ever. As with last week’s replay there was picture interference throughout – though it’s a tribute to BBC Parliament that they assumed the viewers had the intelligence to ignore this – and some parts of the country were still staggering on in black and white. There was also more editing – around 90 minutes were chopped out around 1am, meaning we lost the declarations of all three party leaders, and again we lost the breakfast programme as we leapt straight from just after 4am to 10am. The biggest disappointment about that, perhaps, was that Alan Watson, who co-presented the early shift with Michael Barratt, therefore only appeared reporting from Conservative Central Office. A shame, given his obvious star quality in 1970, and that this was his last BBC election – next time round he was standing as a Liberal candidate. Perhaps Barratt’s agent demands huge repeat fees?

There were many eye-opening moments during the replay. During the early part of the programme we paid a number of visits to Ladbrokes for news of the latest odds – reported on by none other than BBC racing presenter Julian Wilson. Meanwhile Magnus Magnusson was anchoring proceedings in Glasgow, and at 4am, Esther Rantzen attempted some vox-pops in Covent Garden with a number of pissed-off market traders (“Do you have a message for Robin Day?” “Not really.” “Do you have a message for Alastair Burnet?” “Not really.”) Esther showed up again the following morning in Chelmsford, partaking in some rather unpleasant toadying while interviewing Norman St John Stevas.

There were also some prime cock-ups. During the traditional scoot around the seats hoping to declare first, Alastair talked all over Guildford correspondent Paul Griffiths (the race was a bit of a damp squib this time, though, with Cheltenham and Newcastle both losing ballot boxes and Guildford running away with it). A crappy slide of Labour gains saw Alastair announce that “I’m not sure the spelling’s all that good, so sorry about that”. Meanwhile an attempt to speak to Michael Charlton (sadly underused here) in Huyton on the phone had to be abandoned, though 10 minutes later we did get him in vision (Charlton’s opening – “What?”) Robin Day didn’t show up for over an hour, and spent most of the time coughing, while Alastair repeatedly messed up the Moray and Nairn result, taking three goes to confirm the SNP had won it.

Yet as the replay went on, the crude presentation and archaic chat began to become less noticeable as you realised that what you were seeing here was a huge news story developing. Almost from the off, everyone involved knew that the result was going to be tight – the Tories and Labour were neck and neck, the Liberals were making huge gains, and the other parties all had support. David Butler suggested that it was going to be a “long hard night”, which came true when even five hours in they still weren’t able to predict a winner. After a while it looked as if Labour would be the biggest single party (contrary to the opinion polls, as usual), but even then nobody knew if they’d be able to govern. By 12.30am, Alastair was already placing bets on them all coming back for another election quite soon, to which David replied, “Good, I enjoy them, though I don’t know if the viewers do!”

When it became obvious that the vote was going to produce a complete stalemate, Alastair wondered aloud if we were heading for “one of the most serious crises of our time”. With the miners’ strike continuing, David Butler despaired as there was apparently only two weeks worth of coal left – though this was later disputed by the energy minister, who claimed that there was enough to keep the country going until April. Robin even asked one of his guests, “Are we not in an economic 1940?”

The other big story of the night saw Bob McKenzie continually point out that while the Liberals were getting half as many votes as the two main parties, they were only winning a handful of seats. One lecture on the injustice of this saw Alastair announce, “That was a Party Political Broadcast on behalf of the Robert McKenzie campaign for proportional representation”.

As we entered the small hours, things were getting tougher, with an atmosphere unlike virtually any other results show. The odd gag – such as Alastair asking Bob if he could come back next week for another election – was normally followed by everyone looking glum and saying “Of course, this is a very serious situation”. Everyone was at it; some banter between Graham Pyatt and Bob McKenzie as to whether the computer had been more accurate than Bob’s arithmetic was followed by Robin telling everyone to stop arsing about. Desmond Wilcox had a different take on it – “It’s a score draw, and a replay at Aston Villa next Wednesday!”

If the night itself was grim, the following day was even worse, with everyone now resigned to a tie with no overall winner. Worse still, nobody had a clue what the result actually meant, nor what would happen next. There was still time for a bit of whimsy, such as Robin interviewing cartoonist “Jak”, or David Lomax standing around outside Jeremy Thorpe’s garden gate hoping for an interview, which he eventually got, but only after Thorpe’s mother had told him to go away. We also got what some of us had been waiting for – Alastair announcing that the children’s programmes had been moved to BBC2, something that every BBC current affairs presenter has to do at least once.

For the most part, though, this was a time for serious discussion. David Butler was blaming Enoch Powell for the result – he’d withdrawn from the race telling everyone to vote Labour, and around his constituency in the West Midlands, 11 seats had gone to Labour with much larger swings than average, thus creating the deadlock. Butler quipped that “Isn’t it ironic we’ve now renamed the Black Country, Powell Country?” Bob McKenzie was still rallying against the electoral system, though Alastair assumed there’d probably be “one more election” under the current one. Robin thought the UK might be “right on the edge of a ghastly disaster”, while David said that the entire country had, given the chance to vote, all opted for “don’t know”.

As the coverage continued into the early evening, there was still utter confusion over what would happen next. Alastair summarised that, “All can claim to have won, but not all can claim any prizes”. David Butler called it an “irreconcilable situation”, while Alastair felt a climate of “doubt, indecision, maybe fear”, and that the results were “the end of the beginning”. David Dimbleby was watching cabinet minsters show up in Downing Street while Ted Heath was trying to work out what to do. Nobody knew whether he would try and carry on as Prime Minister, set up a coalition, or resign. At 6.45pm, Alastair signed off. “We will return at 9.25 with a programme called ‘Back To Work’, although it should perhaps be called ‘Carry On Worrying’ or ‘Carry On Voting’. This is the indecisive General Election of 1974″.

The 1974 replay hadn’t been as entertaining as 1970, but in its own way it made for equally compelling viewing. It was fascinating to see a news event unfold in real time, with a general feeling of chaos and uncertainty gripping both the studio, and the nation as a whole. Seeing a political situation unlike nothing we experience now was particularly eye-opening. Well done to BBC Parliament for providing a riveting history lesson.

Now, 12 months on, the channel is returning to the archives for more of the same, but on a far grander scale. This time round we’ve a trio of polls, spread over three weeks. Still to come are the ballots from February 1974 and June 1983, but the sequence kicked off with June 1970 – Harold Wilson squaring off to Edward Heath for a second time, and opinion polls predicting a comfortable Labour victory.

With a keen eye for historical significance, the coverage opened with some clips from a 1945 election newsreel boasting a suitably jocular voiceover and bombastic, if rather wheezy, footage. “Bobbies paused before a conveniently open window and heard that the government was doing nicely!” chimed the off-screen announcer over a silhouetted constable, before the here and now abruptly hoved into view courtesy of some crude computer typeface. Text scrolled across the screen to announce the arrival of Cliff Michelmore – and what an arrival. Perched high in a gantry above a mighty cavern of a studio, Cliff set the scene. “We’re all settling in,” he declared cosily, and cut to Robin Day in earnest but silent conversation with a complete stranger.

Next came a truly awesome sight. An absolutely huge panorama of technicians, monitors and desks unfurled before the camera, together with an embankment of painted charts and cardboard towering high into the rafters. The entire structure was so tall it had a real door built into it. As if this wasn’t enough, a massive blue screen curved round the ceiling, presently boasting a somewhat impressive vista of a Scottish sunset.

Looking somewhat adrift amongst the battlements, Cliff nonetheless got straight down to business. Down in Southampton “the QE2 is in port,” while “waiting in a London discotheque” were Tony Blackburn and Julie Felix, though we’d see no sign of either at any point during the entire programme. Over in Trafalgar Square was a man who’d landed the most dangerous job of the night: a crumpled looked Desmond Wilcox, determined to upstage anyone or anything in his way. He began work, observing, “The fountains look like becoming the number one target for political cooling off … so far the police have been gentle.” His psychedelic tie jostled for attention with two giant screens, one relaying the Beeb’s coverage and the other, which he studiously ignored, the property of ITN. Spying a visitor to the capital, Desmond then launched off on a monologue about, “the problem that Harold Wilson outlined … too many people going away on holiday.” “I’m not on holiday,” his companion retorted tartly. “You’re not on holiday?” repeated Desmond unnecessarily. “No, I’m a driver.” This exchange was promptly abandoned for a gentleman who insisted he always followed opinion polls then claimed he didn’t, and finally, one last throw of the dice, a punter who snapped, “I would’ve like the cost of living more discussed.” “Well, it was,” snorted a thoroughly enraged Desmond, and with that it was back to the studio.

BBC Parliament had slightly trimmed the coverage in places, presumably to edit out moments when the original videotapes had been changed or damaged. There were, however, two big cuts: we lost the entire morning-after breakfast programme helmed by Michael Barratt, which was a shame as he consequently ended up having a very minor role, and he even had his trademark bank of Nationwide monitors to hand as well. The semi-notorious extended sketch The Campaign’s Over! was also ditched, unsurprisingly, replete with Warren Mitchell as Alf Garnett, Eric Sykes as “The Foreman”, and Spike Milligan as “Paki-Paddy”. Only a portion of this reportedly exists now anyway, but to be honest the evening was none the poorer for its absence, especially as posterity records it was distinctly unfunny and technically near-incompetent.

We still had Cliff’s rather hesitating intro into it, however – “We’ll take you to Alf Garnett … the first return of the night!” – and when we came back Cliff was now down at his main desk, an impressively shiny grey bureau. On his left was, as ever, David Butler, fixing the camera with his slightly glazed expression to reel off statistics in gripping, endless fashion. On Cliff’s right, however, was a new face: Alan Watson. Here was the unsung star of the night: a dapper, avuncular commentator with an anecdote about every single MP and every one of the country’s 630 constituencies. Harold Lever, therefore, was “the richest man in the Labour cabinet”; Desmond Donnelly “ran his entire campaign off a yacht”; and Edward Fletcher was “one of the few members of Parliament to have fought in the Spanish Civil War. As the night wore on Alan’s wry asides made for a wonderful complement to Cliff’s own cheerful bonhomie and David’s exhaustive analysis. Completing the team Bob McKenzie was hunkered down by his wall of facts, plus “City”, “Industrial” and “Foreign” desks for further elucidation, and a special “Comment” desk where visiting pressmen and broadcasters delivered homely monologues straight to camera.

It was a little while before the first results came in, so Cliff took time to lay out this “vast and complicated programme – we won’t try to explain it to you all at once.” Most of the country, it turned out, was still in black and white, including Wales and Northern Ireland, and every single time coverage cut between monochrome and colour, or indeed anywhere around the studio, spectacular picture interference raged for three seconds. Yet this all added to the feeling of the Beeb pushing the envelope, of this being a singularly innovatory live event – and the danger of things forever on the edge of falling off air.

Despite Bob hazarding a guess that “one or two pollsters may be on the chopping block tomorrow”, virtually everyone in the studio tacitly entertained the possibility of Labour remaining in power. Then came a note of caution from Gravesend. “We’re going to try something entirely new,” Cliff began, and what followed was, remarkably, the Beeb’s first ever exit poll, from a place “shown by a computer to be the most ordinary constituency in England … typical cars with typical traffic jams.” Intriguingly, evidence pointed to a Tory victory.

Out on the beat and oblivious to Gravesend was a somewhat tetchy David Dimbleby in Huyton, Harold Wilson’s constituency, and the debonair Michael Charlton down in Bexley with Edward Heath (“Party morale remains indestructible”). Charlton had, inevitably, great material to work with, not least the fact that standing against Heath was a man who’d changed his name only the week before to, yes, Edward Heath. Reporters had also been assigned to various key counts, including several competing to declare first. Indeed, this was to become the first big event of the night and really helped proceedings off to a cracking pace.

Keith Kyle was at Wolverhampton where “there was all-in wresting two nights ago”, a subdued Denis Tuohy skulked in Guildford, while a decidedly pissed-off looking James Burke lurked in Cheltenham. “It really is warming up, this,” chuckled Cliff at the prospect of the race ahead, “grapevines spreading out their tentacles … we’re going to have the most ghastly crash!” After flicking between various scenes, all of which promised a declaration in “minutes”, suddenly we dashed over to Guildford. A man, desperately out of breath, ran onto a stage and flung bits of paper at his colleagues. A massive “CON HOLD” legend appeared on screen, accompanied by a 4% Tory swing. Back in Cheltenham James Burke was so gripped with emotion he started yelling “here in Guildford!” The studio was convulsed with drama. David Butler started gabbling. Bob McKenzie boomed. In an instant everyone realised the polls had been entirely wrong, and that Heath was heading for victory.

It was all precious information for Graham Pyatt seated in his black suit and black tie with, according to Cliff, his “computer stuff” to get to work on. Cliff then interrupted Robin Day, newly settled up in the gantry, to bring us an update on rumours of a low turnout in Devon North. “There are no rumours,” countered David Lomax from the counting hall. Whenever technical problems persisted, which they did frequently, Cliff immediately stepped in with calm, sincere authority. “I’m not going to allow it to continue”, he declared on sitting through footage of absolutely nothing happening in Salford East. As other verdicts began to seep in and Bob labelled it “the most startling result since the war,” we had on-the-spot comment from various regional cities including a bumptious Jeffrey Preece in Birmingham and, a nice surprise, a charged-up John Humphrys in Manchester, who launched into an anecdote about Winston S Churchill “going into a pub” in Stretford only to suddenly get cut off, to Cliff’s audible amusement. Other places, however, had to settle for a colour slide. Torquay was represented by a nice view of its attractive bay; Nelson and Colne had to settle for a drab shot of a dirty high street.

All of this meant little back in Trafalgar Square, where things were getting a bit out of hand. People had started dancing in the fountains. “Cooling their ardour I suppose,” began Desmond petulantly, before spotting a black gentleman nearby. “Now, you’re an immigrant,” he began. Up in his balcony Robin grilled Enoch Powell down the line from Wolverhampton. “I would hate to bandy words with my leader, let alone adjectives,” drawled the MP, an exchange that reduced Cliff to a fit of the giggles. Yet for all the gags and puns and punchlines – “That’s a result from Labour, er, Liverpool Exchange. Labour Exchange! Someone will be there before the night is out!” – Cliff retained a firm hold on the sheer drama of the occasion throughout. Gravitas, mixed with sheer exuberance, was never far away, and it made for a stunning mix. “And … standby!” he yelled suddenly just after midnight. “The Conservatives gain Keighley!” “Do you ever wish you had 16 heads,” he asked the viewer, faced with a torrent of information and bemoaning the fact Graham Pyatt’s computer had been “fed with blue print-out.”

Faces and names with potent contemporary and topical resonance drifted by – Gywneth Dunwoody losing her seat in Exeter, Robert Maxwell in trouble in Cheltenham. There were charming displays of returning officers struggling with their moment of glory and blinking in the lights of national television. In Birmingham Ladywood an elderly councillor kept enquiring, “Right now?” to no-one in particular before repeatedly mixing up the candidates names to general uproar. A desperate official in Devon North could be heard pleading, “Check, check the bundles, bundles of 50!” But the returning officer at Cardiff West took the honours for the most belligerent public servant of the night: “Ah, keep quiet,” he barked at some hecklers, “keep quiet, for goodness sake!”

The iconic moment came just after 12.30am, when the camera cut to Bob McKenzie standing by his swingometer where a BBC set designer was busy painting on new numbers to reflect the unexpected Tory success. As the time came for both party leaders to hear their respective results, we went back to Dimbleby in Huyton, whose desperate ad libbing waiting for Wilson to arrive – “scrambler telephones … hot lines … we were reliably told he was about to drive up to this entrance …” – recalled Michael Cockerell’s doomed improvisatory efforts in 1979 at Jim Callaghan’s count. Michael Charlton, however, was revelling in the occasion. “He looks a bit more secure than the Drill Hall at times,” he waxed, as Heath swept into his declaration, before grabbing an audience with the man himself and entertaining Heath to a cross-examination with an off-screen (presumably ITN) colleague (“I’m not on the air, Michael, so you better go on”).

“Caught!” boomed Cliff just after 1.30am, “Caught, caught – there’s a little whisky in there,” he apologised, hastily replacing his glass. Election telly tradition dictates the host is caught mid-slurp or mid-chew, and for Cliff, inevitably, it was both as sure enough a sneaky bite of sandwich followed an hour later. Moments of good humour were forever giving way to great melodrama, though, with particular significance heaped on the defeat of Labour Deputy Leader George Brown in Belper. By this point it was clear a substantial Tory victory was on the cards, and just as in 1997 some key Labour figures were in danger. But Brown’s departure seemed to affect the studio and guests more than any other. Alan Hart was at the count and spoke in hushed tones of how Brown had, “at times, been offering his hands in a gesture of prayer.” Cliff joined in, miming how he’d seen Brown biting his nails. “The situation is, as you know, a developing situation,” he concluded memorably. Once Brown had gone, David Butler mourned the loss of “one of the most outstanding people in Parliament.” The comment, by being both so obviously subjective and uniquely heartfelt, seemed a little out of place.

The entire coverage was steeped in faces, names and above all language of another age. David spoke of the defeat of the Clapham Labour candidate, who, if he’d won, would’ve become “the first negro MP in the House of Commons.” Harold Wilson referred to an “anti-racialist” candidate in Smethick. Giant “No To Common Market” placards hoved into view at various counts. Robin Day joked with union leader Clive Jenkins over how much overtime BBC staff would be getting tonight – “We mustn’t go into that anymore!”

Meantime Desmond continued his vigil under Nelson’s Column. “Several people turned up here,” he rued, “with balloons filled with helium, and weren’t too happy when other people put cigarettes into them.” He had the misfortune to be filmed entirely from behind, his face always obscured, which just made his grillings seem all the more seedy and suspect. In the studio, though, things became ever more jovial. Robin questioned a very upbeat Jim Callaghan about likely candidates for the Labour deputy leadership (“Give me a chance, I’ve got to drink a cup of tea first!”) and for the first time we went back to the discotheque, heralded by a giant image of a scantily dressed gyrating woman with the Beeb’s Election ’70 logo tattooed across her chest – “we’ve denied you that pleasure for a long time,” drawled Cliff. Bernard Falk lurked uneasily amongst the dancers at La Valbonne, restricting his polite enquiries those non-dancing upright guests only.

“I really think it’s time, Michael Barratt, we went Nationwide!” Cliff began, cueing in – at last! – Mike and his monitors. Technical problems persisted, with Jeffrey Preece in Birmingham complaining “I missed the question – someone was opening the door of the studio.” Christopher Brasher was at the Oxford Union where a bold psychedelic disco was in progress and an even bolder Gyles Brandreth had just finished his finals. Dawn broke over Trafalgar Square, where a cold Desmond Wilcox, down but not out, noted with relish, “our rivals in the fairground from ITV have already departed.” Indeed, Cliff chimed in “if you’re thinking of joining Independent Television, they’ve gone to bed.”

The scene was set, at 4am, for a splendid finale dash around virtually all the results so far. Cliff read the figures, David followed with a line or two of analysis, and Alan chipped in with yet more bon mots. Kenneth Baker was “the best dressed man in the Commons,” to which Cliff snorted, “Ah. Well. Whoopee,” which seemed a little unkind. Robin interviewed Anthony Barber puffing on a cigarette, and Eric Lubbock predicted another election in October. “Well, we better keep the studio in being,” concluded Robin. “Producer Dick Francis, keep a note of that will you?”

A little after 4.30am Cliff began to wrap things up for the night, informing Robin, “You may now have some of your iced coffee and your solid pork sausages than you brought all the way from a famous store that I dare not mention.” Violent classical music played us out over the requisite long list of credits (and there were a few famous names in there, including Ron Neil and Brian Wenham), then, a few seconds later, it was 9am and Robin’s cold meats had been and gone. So had Michael Barratt, who we saw on his way out the studio. A third of the results were still to come, but it being the morning after there was time and room for more expansive features – a ponderous debate between Oxford academics, for instance, and visits to numerous suburban covered markets, including one in Barnstaple where David Lomax encountered some delightfully outspoken old women. One dismissed the pollsters with contempt, concluding, “My own opinion is good enough for me,” a comment which particularly tickled Cliff.

The stock market opened, with shares rising “between two shillings and five shillings right away!” Richard Baker dropped by to read the news, including details of Barry Humphries getting arrested in Australia on account of being drunk and disorderly, and Graham Parker read the weather with cigarette smoke billowing across his face. Bob McKenzie was now in shirtsleeves, resplendently smoking his pipe on screen, but after being addressed by erstwhile commentator turned MP Geoffrey Johnson Smith as “old friend”, and perhaps feeling things getting a bit too whimsical, Robin felt moved to deliver one of his trademark pompous summations to camera. “What we have seen today,” he intoned, “is an example of how British democracy works – peacefully, non-violently … something that happens in very few countries of the world today … something that we can be proud of.”

Such self-indulgent editorialising was almost forgivable in the light of his later efforts at interviewing the Welsh Independent MP SO Davies, 83 years old, on a very bad line, and who decided to answer most of the questions in Welsh. Cliff showed us the London evening papers (“This’ll save you a ha’penny”) with the London Evening News proclaiming “TED SAILS IN”. Michael Charlton related how the new PM had earlier been accidentally stabbed in the throat with a cigarette butt – “the least troublesome pain in the neck that Heath is likely to get.”

The vast gleaming arena that was the BBC election studio began, just a little, to feel the strain. “If you heard a loud bang there, and you know what it is, let us know because nobody here knows what it was,” grumbled Cliff at one point. “Didn’t half go off pop …” Over on the Industry desk a call came through for correspondent Harold Webb. “Just a moment, the phone’s ringing,” he dutifully announced, but there was nobody there. “A lady has just got straight through to me,” Cliff countered, “thinking I was a house agent. Now I assure you that it wasn’t Mrs Wilson, because she doesn’t have the number. Probably looking for a charming little place near Westminster at the moment. If you’ve got my telephone number, don’t use it …”

This reviewer’s access to BBC Parliament ended with roughly three hours of coverage to go, thanks to the machinations of Telewest who, in their silent wisdom, decided to switch to the Performance channel. But up until then this special presentation of Election ’70 had been near exemplary, with only the interference from the original recordings disrupting the picture quality. It had been possible to get completely immersed in the drama and emotion of the original transmission, and soak up its pace, excitement, and vibrant, ever-present boisterous humour minute by precious minute.

Being able to see Cliff, flanked by a mighty ensemble of experts, seated in the middle of such a dazzling construction, was a true privilege. The lasting image of Election ’70 will surely be of the veritable army of the BBC rank and file bustling all over the studio complex. You certainly never see this many on hand for an election nowadays, but that just added to the spectacular sense of occasion. The entire programme fizzed with heady camaraderie. It must have been fantastic to work there, on the biggest political TV operation ever mounted, with all the BBC’s resources at your disposal, and the best presenters in the business up front. The gentle chatter, the hum of feverish activity, the buzz of people milling around, getting in shot, while processing information and mapping a moment of history – this was all, quite simply, wonderful, unforgettable television.