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