(Above: and more prescient Rowe here).
The pond just had to stay up late, by god, for the good of this great country, way past its bedtime, just to take a few snaps of the front digital pages.
There were the reptiles, confused and anxious, featuring minutes before the coup, an heroic figure glowering at the skulking rat lurking in the distance:
Say what? Now we learn about the wall punch ...
Never mind, minutes later, how did that digital front page look?
Crest-fallen, but the victor still looking like an ambushing rat. And they're still banging on about that wall punch ... oh well, better late than never.
And then there was the Terror, that set it all rumbling ... who to blame?
Yep, devotion to Jolly Joe ... it's all loyalty and the used car salesman's fault ...
And then there were the HUNsters:
Oh dear, poor Jeff. Do they supply blue pills for depression?
And then there was the Currish Snail, as parochial as ever, but not a photoshop in sight:
Insert the whining voice of a toddler? The Murdochians, whiners and whingers and moaners the lot of them, are suddenly whining about toddlers?
And so to the haters, because haters still gunna hate ...
The Bolter was in such a foaming, gnashing of teeth frenzy that he resorted to bold, a step below shouting in caps, but not by much:
Oh dear, oh dear, oh dearie me ... and then after that came a terse anger, with bonus typo:
Very, very, very angry ...
But strangely, the pond felt like bursting into song, and luckily a kindly correspondent forwarded along some lyrics that quite fitted the occasion, if the election is considered to be the election held by one's peers ...