Who is the Westminster Village Idiot?

My goodness, it's dusty around here! Sadly, my self-enforced hiatus was longer than expected but with so many balls in the air, one must sometimes make sacrifices.
Those of you who have stuck around or stopped by to check for updates every now and then; know that I love you from the bottom of my wine glass. 

My plan to come back with a conference special was put aside after hearing another story about offensive anonymous phonecalls. It would seem that for the past few months, perhaps since the start of Spring, someone has been making an effort to harass and insult MPs' secretaries or researchers.

There have been rumours and mutterings in certain circles about the calls and I've had to pick up details from more than one office but what I've heard has raised my ire exceedingly. Some might say these are prank calls but I say when continuous calls come through on a withheld number and an electronic voice starts throwing out insults which then causes a middle aged woman to break down and cry, it's not a prank.

Several offices have been targeted and nearly all those affected have been women. Does this make our Idiot a man? I think so but that's only because I have heard the speculation over who the Idiot is. Speculation that he also works on the estate, for an MP.

If any of my dear readers have any information or thoughts on the Westminster Village Idiot do let me know. You can email me at felicityparkes@gmail.com and I won't mention any names. I understand that the police have also been called in so if you're not wanting to tell me, do tell them instead.

And to the Idiot himself - I don't like bullies of any kind. What goes around, comes around.
 
Toddles, my darlings. x

Bojo Shows His Mojo

This blog now officially backs Boris for Leader of the Party. You're welcome, Boris!

Boxers or Briefs - A Horror Story

I've written several times for this blog and elsewhere about slipping into events with free wine and tasties. I don't often mention the events I attend with my boss because very little happens at these.

After all, I am there to scout out the room before he gets there. I approach a few who I know will want to speak to him or him to them and I try for the life of me to remember something about them to mention when I subtly push my boss in their direction. He doesn't always need someone to guide him around the room and direct to who and what he speaks about but there will always be days when his brain is just too damn busy to do these sort of things himself. It's in those situations when I feel over-dressed for my role as carer.

The two of us were in such an environment recently and my face was starting to hurt from the fake smiling whilst my brain screamed for me to go hard at the wine table. We had been there for approximately 30 minutes when my boss disappeared from the room suddenly. He knows better than to leave without telling me so, dear readers, I just assumed he had headed to the little boys room. Looking back, oh how I wish I had been wrong.

Having circled the room several times, checked the hallway outside and the reception area, I had no where else to look but outside on the street. My first instinct was to panic before I convinced myself that he knew better than to get into a stranger's car and none of the puddles around where deep enough for him to drown in.

Suddenly he was calling me and rather than hiss “Where the f*ck are you?” I forced out a calm and concerned “Are you alright, you had me worried?”

“Come to the mens toilet, right now!” I have a male flatmate so this sentence did nothing but fill me with despair.

“Oh no, why?”

“For God's sake woman!”

“Okay, okay.” I could already see his head poking out if the toilets as I approached. My dear boss looked pale and sweaty. I was detecting the mad vibe from him and not in the Boris 'Jolly' Johnson kind of way.

“I need you to take this and then leave without speaking to anyone here. Don't stop until you find a bin and then get rid of it.”

I pointed at the knotted bin bag in his hand. Deep breath Flick, oh god no, that was a bad idea. “If that's what I think it is... Why can't you leave it in there?”

“And if someone finds it? Felicity, I am not asking!”

“You do not pay me enough for this.”

And that was how I found myself angrily stomping my heels down the street trying to find a bin, and then running away nearly hysterical when the bang landed with a thud.

At my request, the boss promised to never step foot in the restaurant where he'd had lunch that day, and I've taken to carrying around anti-bacterial wet wipes. His way of apology was a bottle of wine and slap on the bum. I'm sure that if I wasn't such Single Sally I wouldn't have giggled as much. Just call me Enemy of the Sisterhood!

Toodles xx

The Toilet Door Opens Both Ways

My parents never left me in a pub toilet before but that doesn't mean I haven't left myself in one. There's nothing worse than going too far and too fast only to find yourself camped out in a cubical, desperate to pass out in peace against the cold toilet tiles. I did this once and when I came to, the club had closed. No word of a lie; the staff had all gone home and the doors were locked. I set the alarm off by going through a firedoor round the back and then had run from the scene as fast as my little feet could take me! Handbag in one hand, shoes in the other.

And remember the story about Gordon Brown trapping himself in a toilet once and needing Tony Blair to rescue him? I had no particular reason for bringing that up, I just like the story.

People are asking if Cameron had been drinking before everyone piled into the vans to go home. Well here's a clue; they were at the pub, of course he was bloody drinking. These things happen and the world as we know it doesn't come crashing down.

It's not like it was this bad -

Beard Lovers, Soup Bringers and Yes Men.

In the past, I have welcomed the month of May with open arms and frilly undies. This year, however, it has been a bloody nightmare and the sooner it's over the better.

The boss had a few rather stupid ideas about events in the constituency to help him engage with his 

constituents and to make it seem like he's actually doing something. This has resulted in me spending the last few weekends in the constituency because it would be too much for him to do it on a Friday, wouldn't it?

IPSA only allow twelve claims for staff travel to the constituency, per year. At this rate I'm going to be paying for myself by the summer recess.

Then, on top of that, the boss's 'delegation' abroad last week had a small part of me hoping that he might come into contact with Somalian pirates and live in a tent for a few months. 

So all in all I've not had that much time to go home and chillax like a Prime Minister, I have however lost a quarter of a stone so, you know what they say about life and lemons...

A quick skim of W4MP Jobs, as you do, shows that Mike Hancock is looking for a Parliamentary Intern. The preferred candidates must be 'bright and hardworking' and must 'have a sense of humour.' Put beard fetishists down as a hobby/interest and it's a guaranteed win.

Liam Byrne is also hiring both a researcher and office manager. Rebuilds are a bitch, aren't they, Liam?

And one final job I wanted to mention is going at CCHQ - Database Administrator. 'The Database Administrator (DBA) is the custodian of the Party's data.' Ben Howlett need not apply.

Toodles x

14 POINTS AHEAD...

I know it's expected halfway through a Government's term but really, how is this man leading a party 14 points ahead of us?!

On another note, where did the chap in the cardigan go and how do I party with him?

Source of pic here

Rain, Rain Go Away.

The plan had been to do a small favour for someone and drop off a few bundles of leaflets. I rang the door bell about three times, getting increasingly annoyed that no one was answering – it was chucking it down and my umbrella was on it last legs. Eventually the door opened and an old boy, pulling his coat on, greeted me cheerfully. So now I was wet and feeling bad because I had tried to rush an old man who may well have been campaigning for the Tory Party since Macmillan.

“I'm glad you bought a brolly, I've only got the one. We should be done in a few hours and then we can enjoy a nice cuppa tea.” 

Drat. Granddad here thought I was delivering and campaigning with him rather than just dropping off. The urge to correct him with “sorry pops, there's a chocolate cake and bottle of rose back home that needs my attention,” but how could I? Here was an OAP prepared to walk miles in the rain for the cause and I just couldn't look into his friendly eyes and leave him to it. 

So that was how I found myself, wandering in an unfamiliar residential area, in the mist of what felt like a storm. All of my make up had dripped to my jawline and no cigarette had survived more than two puffs before it was cruelly taken away from me by the elements.

“Are you alright, dear?” A little old lady with a trolley asked as I desperately tried to get my lighter to work, in the shelter of a bus stop.

“I've gone out campaigning by mistake!” And then I dropped a bundle of leaflets to the very wet ground with a cry. She walked away pretty darn quickly as I rolled out every cuss word I could remember.

I've always tried to to keep to the rules when wearing a rosette; treat everyone and their property with respect. Don't kick their animals or their children and, even though it might seem like the only way to repeat some of the more sillier party lines, don't be drunk. The bit about the animals is the hardest one if you ask me – anyone who releases their dog with the shout “go get em” deserves to see me kick or swing my handbag at the drooling beasties. Dog slobber stains.

By the end I was seated in a rather musky smelling front room, drinking a perfect cup of tea, listening to the old boy's stories about elections past. Steam rose off my clothes and hair, making me look like a demon from the underworld. I'm scarier than that if you ask a union member, for I am a Tory.

And do you know what, dear readers? I actually had a really good day.

xx

Boobies to The Left of Me, Boobies to The Right

Nothing gets a God fearing Backbencher red in the face like accidentally bumping into them in a tiny lift. With my breasts.

Monday was terrible day. This was probably down to me starting the day out by screaming down my phone at 8am, with a coffee and ciggarette whilst freezing my behind off on the Embankment. It could well have been a scene from Spooks but with an excessive use of the F word. That would never have made it past BBC censors; smoking in a public place, I think not!

A magazine simply called Equility turned up in the post with the rest of the never-ending lobby crap. Aimed at women I believe. Despite being the only female in the office, I felt no need to open or read it. The boss picked it up by the very corner and asked "why are these silly bints sending me things about hairy nipples?"
I could have pointed out that it was a self answering question but why waste my breath.

My dear old boss had another encounter with nipples again when he clinked to read Guido's Daily Star Sunday column. When I asked him what he thought he mumbled "I don't know. I'm too busy trying to stop myself from clinking on the 'Star Babes'." There was a pause before he continued louder. "Do you think it will get past the firewall?"

 And he wonders why he's not running the country.

Return from Flick Mountain

Several weeks have passed since my last post. This must be blamed on the unfortunate business of moving flat and an extended stay at my parents' home. Sheer bloody hell, dear readers. On the plus side I've still been able to get my tush out and campaign for Boris as well as the local elections in the constituency. I was relatively sober for most of it.

Because I am the kind and caring sort, I made sure my family and smashing moving of furniture took place during recess so as not to annoy the boss too much. This means that now everything has settled down and I am able to relax once more in a location not inhabited by those with whom I share blood, it's time for the craziness to start again in Westminster. Thank God.

Toodles, darlings! x

You Can Get Me For Less Than £250,000

I missed a great deal of the weekend due to my beloved bestfriend, the bottle. All I was able to get from the Sundays papers was something about businessmen offering up £250,000, Indecent Proposal style, for a night with David Cameron. In a way this is good news - it means some of the ladies I know are no longer the biggest sluts in the Tory party.

Of course I'm sure that's not what the story was...

In other news I spent most of last week running around London, sweating profusely due to the suddenly hot weather, and looking like an overworked goddess. Why do I do this, why do I run around with a huge handbag and high heels? Why do I go to the effort to wear fitted pencil skirts and tailored shirts only to end up looking like a wrinkled bag lady by the end of it? And finally why do I spend a lifetime doing my hair only to drag it back into a knot with pens and lighters stuck through it?

Because I'm a sucker for attention and praise. Because nothing makes me grin more than getting a smiley face text from a frontbencher. And because I am, in my own way, a big old slut as well. My dear granny would be proud.

My new Total Politics article is online here

Toodles, darlings! x

"I should smother you in your sleep for wasting my time!"

Hugs and kisses to @reporterboy for linking me to this image

I've come to the sad realisation that despite his red hair - Prince Harry may actually be my soul mate. Or, at least, a chap I wouldn't get bored with in less than a month. Drat.

Just consider it dear readers, he and I both like a drink, both like to smoke. I love travelling and having people do things for me. I like to dress up, he needs to never go near a fancy dress shop ever again. I wouldn't mind any silly nights out to a strip bar so long as I get to spend the same amount the next day on shoes.

The world sees William and Kate as the golden couple and by having me beside him, Harry can make his older brother look even better. I can see it now... Someone contact Clarence House!

Speaking of royalty, as one so often does, there was no difference to the security for the Her Majesty's visit today. The Pope and Obama visits were guaranteed fingers probe but I wasn't stopped once on Tuesday. I must be losing my touch.

Good night x

Cue the Drunken Ramble.

My drunken, grumpy alter-ego Night Bus Girl decided to send me an email late last night. Obviously with the idea in mind of posting it when I was more able. It may have taken me longer to correct the spelling than it did to write it in the first place. 

I have a huge bag of sweeties and Katie Perry on the old ipod. Never mind that I am sitting next to a very smelly student with acne, I can survive as long as he doesn't breathe on me.

My day has been nothing but anger and frustration, topped off by idiots who have never entered the real world, let alone worked in it.

The youth wing of the Conservative Party suffers from the same illness as any other party; individuals who have joined up not because they give a crap about the country or even defeating the other side, but because it's the 'in thing' to do in their social group. Involvement in the party is a means to an end for many of them and it's all based around their egos. What title they can get for themselves, what names they can drop into a conversation and that all so important Facebook profile pic with a senior member of the party. Colour me unimpressed, bored and disgusted with the whole bunch.

I had listen to several of them talk earlier and throughout I had the urge to throw my glass into the fireplace with a snarl and scream “Can you all stop talking complete nonsense for just two minutes so we might be able to work out who of you are human and who of you are, in fact, horses brought in by others for a bit of mild entertainment!”

A little bit of self awareness isn't hard. It just takes looking in the mirror and realising that what looks back at you is not all that in the wider scheme of things. That just because your friends at school joked one day you'll be Prime Minister doesn't actually mean you're destined to run the country. The simply truth is – we're all arsesholes but those who get remembered are either great in the true sense of the word, or terrible, awful stains on life’s pants. Sadly so many fall into the later category but proclaim the former. My goodness, they p*ss my off!

And that's all she wrote.

Snores, Dave and Girly Porn

Wednesday morning started with a text from the boss asking me to pick up goats cheese, cigarettes and a spork. That alone was annoying – add in the fact that he'd sent it at 5.05am and I was seething before I could even remember whose bed I was in.

I've been meaning to call the bosses wife and try to subtly hint that she should take him to the doctors to get his breathing sorted out. I know it's pretty standard for older men to breath out of their nose like it's the only orifice on their bodies but not like this. At one point I thought he had actually fallen asleep at his desk. I turned, expecting to find him dribbling on his House Magazine but he was, in fact, wide-eyed and reading – with a curling, wobbling, wet sound rolling from both nostrils. How, in the name of God can you sit there making that sort of noise and not be aware of it??

I'm limited to what I can directly say to him, other than “Are you all right, you appear to be choking?” or perhaps “Would you like a tissue? I've just bought this industrial size box and I insist you take the whole thing!”

By close of business Wednesday, the new PPB had been put out. Enjoy!

I'm going to assume that this was filmed in his parliamentary office rather than his Downing Street office because of the dark work and lack of Ikea crap. I personally hate these sort of clips because of the blatant staging.

The unnecessary desk lamp on the end of a long conference table. The two mobiles and pen next to his right arm despite being left handed. The boring tie that doesn't attempt to be any colour for fear of meaning something it shouldn't. The orange make up and the files balanced, in view, rather than filing the red box all scream FAKE.

Tom mentioned that he liked the feel of it; it was warm and comforting according to him. I pointed out that this was purely down to the soft lighting which wasn't dissimilar to that used in the sort of pornography normally aimed at women. You know the sort – plot, piano music and men with long hair. It's all tender romance with the jiggly bits hidden behind a smoky lenses and candle light.

I can't comment on what was said in the PPB because I watched it with the sound down just as a member of the public would. Sue me.
Toodles x

Jesus, Paperclips and My Damn Empty Purse!

I want to get rid of the new intern. Scrap that, I need to get rid of him! Tom has been with us for a few weeks and because he's familiar with the blog, it's been difficult blogging about what happens in the office in case he picks up on it. I'm obviously going to have to kill him. Or upset him so much that he leaves. I don't think that will be too difficult. On his first day I asked him what his hobbies were, he listed sports, politics and following Christ. That is a real conversation killer, I can tell you. Tell Tom you think Obama is going to win the US election and watch him go a funny shade of repressed purple. American Conservatives remain a complete mystery to me.

"I like your bowtie, Tom. Bowties are cool!"

"Yes, ma'am."

"O...kay." Mental note to self, Tom doesn't get popular culture. "So plans for the weekend - you're a young man in the prime of his life, you must have a packed diary with beers, tits, sports and more beer. Right?"

Nothing but an uncomfortable silence and judgemental stare. It was just like my first attempt at drunken pole dancing all over again.

We're coming to that time again when everyone gets in as much spending and IPSA claims as possible before the end of the financial year. Last week I ordered 100 pink paper clips. I didn't need them, I already had a 500 in my desk drawer but they're not pink so morally I win.

On a completely different subject which my dear readers may or may have not been aware of - I am now writing a monthly column for Total Politics magazine. My most recent article can be found here and I do encourage you all to read and comment. Even if it's just abuse, feedback is good. Who knows how long they'll be willing to use ink on the garbled craziness I cobble together so get it while you can!

And before anyone goes looking at the register of interests, I am not getting paid for these articles so don't waste your time, darlings!

Toodles x

Fig Trees, Sean Penn and The Children

Why mummy, why?

A few things caught my eye in the Evening Standard this week. The story about how children are being turned away from the Speaker's nursery made my blood boil. I've never seen more than four kids in there at a time and now I know why. It's not just a waste of taxpayers money, it's also a bloody waste of space. All those who remember Bellamy's Bar will have set a black dot next to The Speaker's name.

Dear readers will have known of my dislike of the PCH trees many months ago. As I said then: if you want to have your meeting or lunch under a tree, next to water – p*ss off to St James' park. In fact I know people who could have got those trees for free and would have only asked for a picnic on the roof as payment! £100,000 on oak panelling? You mean those god awful corridors where the doors look like the walls and a less that sober person can get so lost they tearfully call their friend up asking for them to come get them? Get your money back, I say.

I've only seen the boss once this week as it's recess. And true to form he wanted an off the estate lunch to be our catch up meeting. It ended up with the pair of us bitching and gossiping like a pair of middle aged women. I would never actually say this to him as he would take it as the greatest insult. 

“Who the hell is this Sean Penn sh*t I've been reading about and why is he allowed to comment on foreign events but when I do it I'm 'making a diplomatic incident'?”

Toodles! x

"Stop asking me if I want a hot water bottle!"

I haven't been the best person to work with for the last few days. There's nothing to be done about it and rather than moaning - the older, wiser males in my life have kept a fair distance. Those wet behind the ears have asked if I'm in some way angry with them or having a break down.

*tap, tap, tap*

“What is that noise?”

“My keyboard as I type.”

“WELL MAKE IT STOP!”

Cue fire, brimstone and male tears. I'm not proud to admit it but I kicked a water cooler today because it wouldn't fill my bottle up quick enough. This unfortunate state of insanity is the very reason why I never apply for work with female bosses. I don't care if they're Mother f*cking Teresa, there will always be times when they become dementor-like monsters; flying about the room, dropping the temperature and sucking souls out of poor sods too scared to run.

So I do apologise to all those who have crossed paths with a fire breathing dragon recently. Remember my darlings – it's not personal.

xx

The Labour Mood Swing

Less of the awkward, more of the glum Ed Miliband moments

It was a real struggle to find any labour members of staff or, for that matter, members of parliament who didn't have a face like a wet dish rag on Tuesday. The 'Ed situation' is beginning to hit critical yet no one in the party seems to be able to pull a spine out of their arses to do anything.

The boss and I have a bet on the go; I think Ed will step down graciously within 12 months and the boss thinks he'll stay put until the election. “Rewarding the weak and the incompetent is what the Political Left are brainwashed to do. Look at that sodding benefits cap vote!”

In 1 Parliament Street there is almost an entire floor of MPs offices with SAVE ED posters stuck to them. It's quite a beautiful sight.

I read a report by Professor Mark van Vugt, as you do, that suggests men are to blame for the world wars and similar because they have evolved to attack outsiders. Biggest load of old rot I have ever had in front of my face... and I’ve tried to read Twilight.

Peace and kindness, my derrière!

Women have evolved to resolve conflict through peace and kindness according to the report. There must have been a point where Professor Mark van Vugt was writing that, and his wife screamed 

“YOU'VE LEFT THE FRIDGE DOOR OPEN AGAIN. HOW MANY TIMES DO I HAVE TO TELL YOU BEFORE THAT THICK F**KING BRAIN OF YOURS GETS IT. I AM SICK OF DOING EVERYTHING FOR YOU WHILE YOU SIT AND WRITE YOUR SH*TY REPORT. I SWEAR I COULD JUST RIP YOUR THUMBS OFF AND RAM THEM UP YOUR PENIS!!!”

Will Dave be back in time for PMQs or will we have to see Clegg go up against Harman? I'm going to need ear plugs.

Bye bye xx

Farmers, Madams and Wellies

It was a Thursday but I kept thinking it was a Friday and each glance at the clock was a disappointment.

There are few things as boring as DEFRA questions. Except maybe Welsh questions.

I know there are possibly plans for badgers and still issues with trees but, my Christ, I just don't care. Apologies to the many farmers who read my blog, I know you will be heart broken at this admission.

The only thing to happen in the chamber to raise the eyebrow of yours truly was the nerve of Fiona MacTaggart moaning about ageism from the Prime Minister. The same MacTaggart who had to apologise to Chloe Smith some time last year over remarks about her youth. As a nation we must stop electing goldfish to Parliament.

It seemed that the estate, like the chamber, was quite empty today. It's as though everyone stayed for the main attraction of PMQs and then headed back to their constituencies yesterday. Louise Mensch tweeted about having a surgery today in her neck of the woods; the very idea of that mystifies the boss. “On a Thursday? When the House is still sitting? Does the three line whip mean so little to the new intake?”

“You once said the only three line whip you cared about was the type being held by a Madam.”

“I never said I was consistent, did I?”

By mid afternoon he'd pulled on his ridiculous wellies and marched out the door, shouting over his shoulder “To the homestead!”

This week has gone very fast but, bloody hell, it's aged me.

Toodles x.

Tour of Duty

Next stop: OFFICE RAGE!

 Dear Members of Parliament. Take a moment to think before promising tour places to schools, churches, or absolutely anyone. Skipping into the office at 4:30pm and telling your staff to book a tour for 20 people for the following Thursday is not just unfair to your staff but down right idiotic.

I know you all seem to think that these sort of things are magicked up by the bloody House fairies clicking their fingers. Well, to state the effing obvious; it's not.

Please try to remember that tour spaces are booked up a month or two in advance and saying “Just see what can be done” isn't going to make a blind bit of difference if there are no more spaces left.

And don't even think about then asking your staff to give the tour instead. All the other jobs or requests you've made since 8am need to be finished and that can't be done if a staff member has to babysit a group to fix the problem that you created.

So the whole point of this post is simply this: try and work from home if you can. Your staff will be grateful for the few hours of peace.

And exhale.

"Better the Devil You Know"

Diary of a Westminster Bag-carrier: giving pervs what they want since 2011

Getting post from the constituency office is always fun as it's likely to be from someone who prefers to drop their 'important' correspondences off on a doorstep in the middle of the night rather than email, fax or phone. What was sent up to the Westminster office on Thursday was hilarious as well as sinister. The constituent had made a very large print out of the boss's face and then cut out the eyes. There appeared to be an accidental tear across the mouth and written in purple ink on the back were the lyrics to Kylie Minogue's 'I should be so Lucky'

It was a whole new level of political interest.

I didn't let the boss see it. I have enough trouble getting him into the constituency at the best of times. Last thing I need is him declaring it unsafe. Once he called an event with CWO "exceptionally dangerous to my manhood". Very prone to drama is my boss.

I read the very excellent Closing Prices email from PoliticsHome Thursday evening and spotted the Chancellor's comments on Scotland. Since he was unexpectedly at Dr Fox's New Year's gathering on Wednesday night, I wonder if Osborne got Fox's thoughts on what he was going to say. 

Toodles x

Ed Balls, Tom Baldwin and Hollo de Bone-Bone

I saw Ed Balls a few times around the estate after PMQs, and each time that man had a grin the size of a police officer's subsidised Terrace cafeteria fry up. In other words – f*cking huge!

Tom Baldwin, the other testicle in Ed Miliband's meat and two veg, looked decidedly calm and relaxed in PCH. However I don't think he should lurk about in that large coat of his. I'm not going to say he looked like a dealer as that would imply that I know what one looks like. And I don't. You've got nothing on me copper!

Do you know what it's like to have your boss point at your crotch and say “I didn't think you were looking forward to PMQs that much?”

I do. “I spilt orange juice down my lap and that's another one to go in the folder marked 'Sexual Harassment.'

The corridor dwellers were out in force today. The taxpayer funds your office, please and politely use it rather than walking up and down the principle floor again and again on your mobile phone. I'm aiming this at Tristram Hunt, Zac Goldsmith and on occasion the Adam Afriyie, to name a few.

Having seen two Tory rebels slinking around the estate together Wednesday morning, I have decided to name them affectionately Hollo de Bone-Bone. Beware all those who support the EU and efficient use of debating time!

The office is now officially dry. Not intentionally I might add, not like those who take a month off to prove to their loved ones that they don't have a problem. No, we just drank our way through the Christmas drink and the bottles left over from the boss's NYE party. Rest assured that the bottles weren't left over because he didn't want to drink them, more to do with his wife trying to see off potential liver failure. When the government suggested two dry days a week, my employer's only response was “I'd like to see them bloody try! From my cold, dead HANDS!”

Shot to The Back of The Ed

As Tuesday was the first day back for the boss, he graced us with his presence before 9am. Once the important issues had been covered and it was declared that Christmas had been a success he reclined back in his chair to listen to Ed Miliband's Today interview on the BBC website. There's nothing like starting the day out with strong coffee, sticky pastries and an utter car crash of media appearance by the Labour leader.

The ugly question had the boss roaring with laughter and smearing jam down his tie. I must remember to tuck a napkin into his collar in events such as these. It's good to see his diet didn't last beyond the first few week of January.

At 11:30am I scooted over to the TV and settled down for the big relaunch. The prospect of the signal failing and no-one but the assembled hacks and Fabians seeing Ed's big moment was gleeful but sadly it held for the entire speech and the Q & A that followed. I say sadly as it would have been better for Ed if it hadn't been broadcast, and by better for Ed I mean better for us. Other Tory staffers stopped by the office to share their groans and grimaces. Far from laughing anymore, each of us were silent with a hand partially or completely covering our faces. Lord knows what our Red counterparts were doing.

I don't believe Labour will be taken seriously until they have a leader who had nothing to do with the Blair/Brown years. Only then will they be about to have a clean break from the past and look back on their party's mistakes as an observer rather than an accomplice. And that's a shame because we really need a good opposition, not one who puts out a relaunch on the day something like HS2 is announced. Although saying that, if I were pretty sure my leader was going to make a hash of something then I'd also make sure there was a big story to dominate the headlines just in case.

Lunch time! xx