THE PRIME MINISTER, SIR PETER Ramsey, has taken a short drive in his official Daimler: one mile from Downing Street to Buckingham Palace and back. On his return, he stood on a red carpet in front of the door of Number 10, where he sonorously announced that Her Majesty would be dissolving parliament and a General Election would be held on the first of May. That was three days ago. It would be an unusually long campaign, six weeks. Ramsey’s hope is that the longer voters have to focus on the consequences of change, the more likely they’ll be to stick with him. It is not a sophisticated strategy but it’s all he’s got.

The dam has burst: everywhere you look, on TV, in the press, on billboards, there’ll be non-stop politics for a month and a half. For Labour, perhaps more than the Tories, the stakes are incalculably high. If the party loses yet again, after nearly two decades in opposition, the game would probably be up for it as a credible party of government.

As for the journalists of the parliamentary Lobby, we’re high on our brief moment of real power. In normal times, it is the ministers, MPs and civil servants who hold the precious information, and we ferret around for scraps. Now those same MPs are just candidates, desperate for our attention, hoping we will convey their words to the voters who’ll decide whether to back them or sack them. We are the masters now. It won’t last.

I am running down the Embankment from Parliament to Millbank Tower, an isolated 1960s skyscraper on the north bank of the Thames, an architectural giving of the finger to the London skyline. This is where Labour has moved its headquarters and where it will host a 9 a.m. general election press conference every day during the campaign. I am anxious. These events are recorded for television news and broadcast live on the BBC and on Sky’s twenty-four hour news channel. America’s rolling news culture has arrived to change and taint public life. Instead of my off-the-record conversations in the lobbies and corridors of the Palace of Westminster, my questions will be on screen. If I make a fool of myself, there will be an audience. A big one. Nowhere to hide.

The officials in the entrance hall recognise me and wave me through to the auditorium. There is a hum of excitement. Spin doctors are cracking jokes with hacks and TV presenters. At the back of the room is a raised platform crammed with television cameras. There are more at the sides for ‘cutaway’ shots. Down the front there is a mob of press photographers.

I am one of the last to arrive. There are almost no seats left at the front. Damn. The only one I can see is alongside Alan Scott. Shit. Needs must.