A version of the following correction is published in the Guardian's Corrections and clarifications column, Thursday 13 May 2010 Referring to the Adam Boulton-Alastair Campbell encounter, the column below described one of the parties as "hysterically queenly and psychotically aggressive". The Guardian's style guide states that terms such as psychotic should be used only in a medical context.



This was the day on which Westminster finally tumbled down the rabbit hole. Were you searching for a vignette in which the hilarious arse-about-titness of it all was crystallised, you could do worse than the contretemps between Alastair Campbell and Adam Boulton on the green outside the Houses of Parliament. Put it this way: Sky News viewers were treated to a live dust-up between two men, one of whom was hysterically queenly and psychotically aggressive and turned puce, and the other of whom was Alastair Campbell.

Reviewing the Raging Boul footage, it appears to be Campbell's suggestion that the Sky News political editor was personally disappointed that David Cameron was not yet prime minister that caused Adam's rag to be well and truly lost.

"Don't keep saying what I think!" he shouted, jabbing his finger and looking for all the world like it would be his fist next. "Don't keep saying what I think! I'm fed up with you telling me what I think! I don't think that!"

"Calm down, calm down," chided Campbell, apparently channelling Michael Winner. "This is live on television."

"Don't tell me what I think!" shrieked Boulton. They had to cut away eventually.

Any other news? Well, the prime minister resigned, which held its own in a busy news schedule. In fact, strictly scientifically, it was bigger than the sudden and untimely death of Prince Harry, and we know this because a few months back the BBC downgraded the notional death of the third in line to the throne to an event that would no longer interrupt normal programming were it to take place. No such sang froid for Labour's Brownectomy, which bumped the Weakest Link (sweet of him to provide his own punchline).

As for the Tories and the Lib Dems … well, the first sign that Mum and Dad were having some problems was an afternoon statement by David Laws.

"Although we are very, very conscious of the need to reach decisions quickly," the party's negotiator told reporters, "we also want to make sure that we get these matters right and this discussion is dependent not only on the Liberal Democrat party, but also on the proposals and discussions that are ongoing with the Conservative party, and the representations that are, frankly, being made by the Labour party."

This is Lib Dem for "Hey – don't hate the playa, hate the game." Within a couple of hours, hung parliament love interest Nick Clegg was cooing at Labour over the airwaves, while busy little helpers were said to be scuttling round Portcullis House demanding named support for a David Miliband leadership campaign.

The puzzle was that so few had seen it coming. Seemingly every pundit and reporter had spent the day either quacking that the Con-Lib negotiations were looking very positive, or warning that we must avoid upsetting the markets – prompting one esteemed colleague to remark that if we were take this mollycoddling of the markets' obsession with stability to its logical conclusion, perhaps we shouldn't have elections at all.

On the BBC, meanwhile, Huw Edwards was claiming that if they didn't hear something from the Lib Dem and Tory negotiating room soon, "the public will begin to lose patience". What he meant, of course, was that people who have to fill rolling news channels would begin to lose patience.

I don't know what it was like where you were, but on the streets of London the public didn't seem to be losing patience at all. The public, in fact, were getting on with their business perfectly happily, and the worry among the political class should surely be that the longer they are left without politicians swanking about reannouncing policies every 10 minutes, the more they will wonder after the point of them.

Loosely speaking, then – in fact, speaking with a looseness likely to be matched only by David Cameron's bowel movements – that is where we are now. It should go without saying that in the time it takes to press the send key we shall be somewhere else entirely. Indeed, given that the cliche of the hour is that "we are in uncharted territory", the cartographers should surely name these coordinates the Straits of WTF and be done with it.