2016 US election dispatch: Sydney

This dispatch from Sydney appeared as part of a Roads and Kingdoms US election night special, Watching the US election around the world

The boys on the Sports desk shout STAND BY STAND BY every time there’s a CNN projection countdown. Every time there’s a Trump win, someone shouts SEE I TOLD YOU.

Part of my job today is to work out if the Russians are going to bomb Syria when they think the world isn’t looking, but I can’t think.

There are 34 television screens in my sightline. The one closest is showing a live shot of the Empire State, Hillary and Donald’s faces painted on in lights, above a giant, bold-red Arial 270. It feels a little Hunger Games, a little Black Mirror, a little 1984.

It’s been a strange day. Where the harbour meets the sea, by the lighthouse where I live, the sky is bulbous, the air cramped. Even the flies are more restive than usual.

There’s been a recent invasion of unidentifiable small flying bugs coating windowsills and ceilings and wall moldings. I watch a haze roll out into the Pacific. Haha, we’ve been joking, it’s the end of the world.

Our social media editor is showing a cartoon of the Statue of Liberty covering her eyes to whoever walks past. The caption: I can’t watch.

She’s wearing a heart-rate monitor to monitor her latest diet. Is today a good day for that? I ask. She laughs a high-pitched nervous laugh that ends with a question mark.

Everyone’s watching different numbers. We’re all trying not to click on the New York Times. Too soon, we say, dancing with denial, too soon.

I ask the Filipino barista in the canteen who’s going to win. That Trump man, he says. You don’t seem too bothered, I comment. He shrugs. What difference does that kind of thing make?

At 2:33 p.m., the man I’ve just started dating texts me: Have we got enough to buy a Greek island between us?

The peso has fallen 11.5 percent. I suggest Mexico.

I hit refresh again on my browser. fivethirtyeight.com has a Trump win at 55 percent.

Kirsty leans over from the next desk. I’ll come, she says.

Oh well, there goes the Paris climate agreement, a cadet shrugs.

We’re live from the newsroom so no one’s allowed to throw things or scream profanities.

Our anchor sees my face; turns around from our makeshift election center. Yep, she says, making a face of her own, pursed lips with perfect white suit.

How are you feeling, I ask.

Sad, she says, completely deadpan.

No one has any more words.

At 3:04 p.m., cartons of Krispy Kremes emerge on the production desk. They’re from the boss. It’s time, she says, slowly shaking her head.

Someone produces a Trump bobblehead, Snapchats him amid the glazed donuts. My lunch is sitting in my throat, she says. Got to try to swallow it down. It’s like an awkward wake, but no one can work out who’s died.

Stockmarkets are crashing around us in jagged shards.

How are you feeling, I ask Helen, who’s following Team Trump. Sick, she says, with a half-fake-laugh.

An email is doing the rounds titled FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK. It’s a photo of a Ben & Jerry’s vending machine, with the words “What flavour goes with the apocalypse?”

I join three producers on a comfort-eating break in an attempt to focus on a package about a newly-discovered mass grave near Mosul.

Lucky you, one says. Today that’s the less terrifying story.

I emerge from an edit suite as Trump takes the stage. There’s a peculiar silence; just delayed versions of his voice echoing from screen to screen to stony face.

Horror doesn’t often look this incredulous. It also doesn’t usually happen in Australian prime time.

Faces are turned to televisions, but eyes are darting from corner to corner. We look at each other to make sure it’s true; to try to work out what we should do with our faces. No one knows.

Pizzas are ordered. Mexican, because, you know, in solidarity. They arrive lukewarm, the cheese a little plasticky on top. Surreality circulates through the air conditioning vents.

I hand around Sriracha from my filing cabinet. There are lukewarm beers, a lukewarm blend of white wine.

There’s still a live show going on in the newsroom but no one cares anymore. I drink at my desk.

How are you looking so gleeful, I ask Gary, sitting opposite. Aren’t you terrified?

“I’m terrified, but it’s so exciting!” He’s approaching vague nervous hysteria.

“He’s got a friendly Senate. There’s no handbrake on this hillbilly wagon. It’s going all the way.”

On the way to the loo, a senior producer is grinning. “This is going to be so much fun.” I wonder if he’d be clapping his hands in private.

“There are checks and balances. They won’t let him go crazy. But it’s going to be so much fun.”

Prime Minister Malcolm Turnbull is on TV wearing a wattle yellow tie, talking about the ties that bind, so strong. But there’ll be no Trans-Pacific Partnership agreement, no promised new, rich markets for Australian beef.

Opposition leader Bill Shorten says he’ll call it as he sees it. Respect for women, racial, religious minorities; otherwise he’ll tell Trump what he thinks.

One Nation anti-immigration-anti-multiculturalism-Halal-certification-funds-terrorism Senator Pauline Hanson is cracking open the champagne in front of Parliament, quite literally; she’s found a camera to document it, too.

Her mate shouts a toast, “To the deplorables!”

She leans into the camera. “Good on ya, Donald,” she says.

I leave the newsroom, half-drunk lukewarm light beer in hand.

Sweet dreams, I say. Cheers.

Maybe tomorrow we’ll all wake up, and this will have been a dream, someone pipes up hopefully.

A few are clustered around a bank of screens in the lobby: solidarity in incredulity.

The security guard shakes his head, all hangdog.

I can’t believe it, he says. It’s completely unbelievable. I can’t believe it. It’s just, yeah, you know, unbelievable. Bernie could have won it, couldn’t he?

The road to Bondi is slick and dark. It’s drizzling; the sort of drizzle that makes everything go out of focus, but isn’t enough to turn your windscreen wipers on. A sort of middling nothing. I realize my brakes are failing.

The radio is segueing to their all-night Sleepless in Sydney show.

I’ll leave you with The Clash, the DJ says.

“On a day like today; Straight to Hell.”