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 -

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.

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!”

Ban Cheap Political Stunts Instead

And I said stunts! Honestly, you lot...

Should cheap drink be banned? Will it make a blind bit of difference to our city centres and high streets? Is it right that we have a Conservative PM pushing forward this sort of thing even though he was quite happy to make a tit of himself by drunkenly throwing up in a friend's room whilst a student?

The answer to each and every one is simply: no.

Insert Your Joke About A Wet Pussy Here

For a while now I have been meaning to write something about the Eurozone crisis but every time I start, I find myself getting bored very quickly. I can only put this down to a lack of financial experience, understanding of a dependant, socialist mind and the fact that Osborne is currently in my bad books.

But what I do know is this – I would never use my credit card to pay for my friends drinks on a night out. This is because I know the lazy bastards would never pay me back and most likely crash at my flat after, empty my fridge and traumatise my flatmate's cat by mistaking my wardrobe for a toilet again. Thus leaving me even further out of pocket. 

So whilst I am happy to pay for my rounds I will always put my foot down and say “no, no, no” when the sob story starts.

“I may be a caring, compassionate conservative but if you want the money to have a night out and forget that you caught the clap from a girl whose cherry you thought you were taking, then might I suggest you try writing a poignant, heartfelt song about STDs in the hope that Simon Cowell gives a shit because I don't. Now go away and so I can chat up this barman in peace!”

That's not something I can see Cameron or Osborne saying to the EU anytime soon but I think the intention should certainly be the same.

Redistribute the Horror

People keep asking me if I dressed as Baroness Thatcher for the halloween party I attended at the weekend. Why would I want to do that? Halloween is about dressing up as something terrifying or inhuman and as much as Liverpool likes to think Mrs T clawed her way up from the fiery depths, I wasn't going to dress as her for a piss up in North London.

I went as Polly Toynbee instead and I'm rather annoyed no one got it. I even had the silly necklace, bottle of Tuscan olive oil and a champagne flute. I despair, I really do.

Basil Brush and the Green Fairy

I was recalled back to the mothership at the weekend. It's nice to visit everyone once in a while so long as I know I can leave at any time.

This wasn't one of those occasions. I can't help think my mothers motivation for hosting my cousin's engagement party was simply a psychological attack on my single status.

I made every effort to speak with my family, especially the old ones. By my fifth glass of wine and third great aunt I was pointedly told that I was “bitter beyond my years.” This resulted in me spending the rest of the evening snarling at the children and flirting with every non related man in attendance. My mother looked like a lemon had been inserted in her by the time I declared “the foxes f*cking on the front lawn are more entertaining than you people!”

I strolled into work with a skip in my step Monday morning. After all I'm not Jeremy Hunt and I have no reason not to look forward to what the day had in store for me.

“Bad show Dave.” My bosses muttered as he returned to the office after Hunt's statement. I can see why the PM didn't come to the House. Everyone was going to be demanding an opinionated comment on the whole affair and Jezza is the only man who can't give one.

I was unaffected by his performance really. Some have commented that he did well, others have said that he killed any chance of being a contender for the leadership. If the latter is the case then the only winner today was George 'The Submarine' Osborne.

I picked up a discarded House of Commons research paper in a committee corridor. On the eighth page of Economic Indicators someone had scrawled the words WE ARE ALL F*CKED. Some people are so negative.

On a totally non related subject – do any of my dear readers know if Michael Gove plans to share his order from Total Absinthe with colleagues? I should hope so since it was delivered to the House of Commons...

I do so want to live in a world where our front benchers come to PMQs giggling with the green fairy.

Good night x

Pass Me A Tissue!

Dear readers, you will be sad to learn that I have a cold. Quite possibly the flu!

This resulted in me staying in bed yesterday, attempting to rub as much Vicks into my skin as possible whilst having a hot towel wrapped around my head. I was a picture of grace and serenity...

To help me feel better my flat mate and his horse faced girlfriend decided to come back to our flat at lunch time and recreate a donkey riding scene from the Bible.

The short and curly of it is that I will not be going to any events or receptions this evening unless I miraculously feel better by 5pm.

So in light of this I put forward a challenge to my fellow parliamentary staffers:

Print off my delightful profile picture on the right hand of the page and take it with you to the staffers reception this evening.

The aim of the game will be to hold the picture up in a photo with any Ministers or Whips. Whoever grabs a photo of the most senior Gov rep there gets a Felicity Parkes mug.

I am Felicity Parkes

Yes it’s what you’ve all been waiting for. Screw the Daily Politics mug, anyone and their handler can get one of those!



Roll up, Roll up, the Circus is in Town

As Mark Pritchard spoke in the chamber about circus animals my boss stood in front of the TV set with his hands on his hips and declared what we all knew. “He’s f*cked.” Seems Mark has put quite a few noses out of joint this week and not just with the circus animals malarky.

Dear readers, I wouldn’t recommend getting drunk and wandering the halls of the Norman Shaw buildings as I did last night. Getting in to the build is relatively easy however once you’re in there the corridors all meld into one and the room numbers don’t make any sense and suddenly you find youself in a broom cupboard rather that a lift! I quickly became bored of the dark maze like nightmare after 20 minutes and sat down outside Ed Balls' office. I contemplated crawling on my hands and knees to Ed Miliband’s office but couldn’t be bothered to push open the heavy doors with ‘Leader of the Opposition’ written on them. Probably for the best really, I have a terrible habit of stealing pens. Vodka is a terrible thing...

Sadly I lost an earring in the corridor...or was it the stairwell? Either way, if anyone finds it and I am looking at you Ed, do let me know.

Toodles x

This is why politics ages you...

I am currently sitting at my desk in sunglasses, surrounded by empty coffee cups and the remains of a bacon sandwich. Why do I do this to myself?

It could be worse though. I am fairly certain that the boss slept in his car last night and is looking like five different shades of sh*t. There is little being said in the office that doesn't resemble a death groan. It's all a bit tender this morning.

I certainly did the rounds last night. Yes, I am aware that doesn't sound very lady like and frankly you should be ashamed of yourselves for taking it that way. I did pop into the cider reception to enjoy a few glasses. It was really just three tables set up with a selection of drinks and lots of people stood around talking about apples. I was out of there after a few quickies. Jess Norman and Ben Gummer were chatting with a group off to one side and looking like a gang of school boys. Caroline Nokes was holding court at one end of the terrace and Rosindell and Fabricant were at the other. It upsets me greatly to know I left before Jo Johnson turned up or Joseph as I know he now wants to be known as. I think I saw Ed Balls in Strangers but by that point it was all a bit hazy. 

Gov Whip, Mark Francois was doing his cheeky chappy act at the reception. I know a staffer who is very taken with him and keeps bringing up the fact that he's single. Mark if you're interested let me know as she wants to give you her number!

All of this on top of the referendum celebration and the all-nighter for the local elections means that I look more tired than Caroline Flint!

Oh my head...

Batman and the Hangover Goblin

Well hello there!

A few times over the last five days I thought that Parliament would be recalled. I must say I did hope that it would happen. 

Today it felt like it was just me, Rachel and the security guard who doesn't like me much. That doesn't really narrow it down, not after I shouted at one of them last week. There is a general feeling that they make the rules up as they go along. Some days an intern gets past them, other days they can't. Some days you're only allowed near a commitee corridor if there's an event. The words "jumped up little fascist sh*t" may have passed my lips one afternoon last week. I was angry enough that the guard in question merely nodded and stepped back.

I got into the office very early Friday morning as I had to get on the roof and retrieve my pass. Yes, that is what I said!

Rachel and I had drinks with a few others on Wednesday night. I joked about getting a photo on the roof. It is after all settling into roof weather and I know a lot of people who have gone up there after a few glasses. These people include MPs as well as staffers. I thought if they can go up there then surely we can too. What harm would it cause? Firstly it helps not to fall out of the door and on to the ledge. My knees are black and blue! Secondly I don't recommend dancing in front of any spot lights, not unless you want the Metropolitan police thinking that f*cking Batman is paying them a visit.

As we were giggling and making our way back, one of the lads with us (silly blonde quiff and overly white teeth) grabbed at my chest. Was I more annoyed that he grabbed my security pass and threw it into the shadows or that my chest didn't warrant a grope? I guess we'll never know.

Either way I had to gingerly make my way onto the ledge Friday morning, run to the corner, grab my poor pass and scurry back without being spotted. There was a split second when I caught my reflection in an office window and thought 'I look quite sexy this high above London!' before mentally slapping myself and heading back in. I could have gone up there on Thurday but the Hangover Goblin wouldn't let me.

You've all seen the Hangover Goblin, right?

Bad Felicity!

Which dedicated bag carrier is at her desk, looking amazing and firing off emails at 9am on a hungover recess morning. You bet your arse it's me! It's important to get at least one email to the boss before 9am so he knows that I am working. Yesterday the email simply said 'You'll never believe this but there's post here for you!'

There has been a higher level of drinking than normal this week, what with the sunshine and everything. This has resulted in a serious lack of posting on my part. I think I've done the Westminster pub crawl every night this week and I believe I've seen more Sky News reporters out and about than I have MPs which when you think about it doesn't actually mean much.

So yes, I am writing this at my desk on a Thursday morning and once it's posted I intend to eat a full English in the vain hope that it might get rid of the taste of Bacardi.

Toodles!

Rachel, Sambuca and a Rickshaw

 I may have had a smidgen too much influence on Rachel the Intern. Apparently she turned twenty last week and has since become determined to leave her teens behind her with the same gritty determination one has when trying to dump a blind date before the food is ordered.

Anyway Rachel has become a Mini Me and I am actually quite flattered. Some people hope to impart wisdom, love and peace to those around them, I am happy for my legacy to be sarcasm, right-wing cynicism and a pursuit of mindless gratification. We've got to teach these kids something after thirteen years of Labour education! I have a friend who has been 'seeing' a chap who refuses to watch films with subtitles because of 'all the sentence things covering the screen and getting in the way.' Yes, his entire secondary education was under Labour and yes, she is a cradle snatcher.

To cut a long story short - at Rachel's request we went to a few of the pubs in Westminster and enjoyed a few shandys. This resulted in us being so legless that I had to pay for a cab back to Rachel's sister's flat and then on to my own. I will be telling her to cough up the money for that when I see her next. 

I received a rather angry phone call from Rachel's sister as I was falling through my front door. Rather than drinking a glass of water and passing out on the sofa, Rachel had decided to light a cigarette (which she had taken from me) and then opened her sister's bottle of sambuca. There was mention of sick and stomach pumping but I haven't had it confirmed by Rachel yet. She did however send me a text this afternoon. 'Soz for my sis calling you a ****'. I've had worse.

I have a vague memory of getting onto a rickshaw last night and declaring myself Boudica: Bitch Queen of London Town. What worries me is that I don't think there are any rickshaws in Westminster. Where the hell did we go? Unless that was when Rachel joked about trying to find where Zac Goldsmith lived and I promptly hailed a cab...

Toodles.

Bitch Fight with the Police

The boss was somewhat fragile today. As I understand it he managed to get himself slipped for Wednesday evening and then disappeared into the evening air with his wife. I don’t know where they went but his phone was turned off and this morning he’s sporting a love bite and a hangover. The old dog!

Rachel the intern was stopped by security today. Normally she is able to get quite close to the office as long as she sticks to the ‘public area’. This time though she was stopped by a petite female officer who was having none of it. This meant I had to get up and get her which put me in a bad mood. Subsequently the argument I then had with the officer may have been caught in the background of a news report. Can’t tell for sure though. This is why I prefer male officers, the older ones especially as they don’t care anymore. They just want a quiet life and a smile from ‘a pretty lass’ which I’m always more than happy to help with.

I’m being urged to go to the Sports tonight but it's karaoke night and it never end well. It’s a tiny pokey little bar anyway but it’s rammed with bodies on a Thursday night and you can’t hear yourself think over the cat wails that is the singing. I think I shall pass...or will I?

Funniest thing I’ve seen today was a No2AV parody tweeted out by Mr Cole. It’s been added to my little wall of ‘images that make me laugh and/or inspire me’.

It joins Maggie on the doorstop, Brown being told about Bigotgate, Boulton vs. Campbell and the past mentioned George and his hoe plus a wealth of others!

Toodles. 

Parental Disappointment for the Main Course

As I mentioned in my post yesterday I spent the evening with my family to celebrate my mother's birthday. The evening consisted mainly of an campaign of terror by mummy dearest about my marital status, or lack there off. Fun for all the family, my parent's friends, my parent's neighbours and my parent's work colleagues. None of whom seemed to 'get' me or my lifestyle. Cue my long suffering sigh.

I am sure many dear readers have been in a similar situation with friends, loved ones or just normal people who don't think about politics 80% to 90% of the time. You tell them you don't have the time or energy to concentrate on a full time relationship let alone marriage. This to them seems alien. "Not everything is about your work, Felicity." No but everything is almost certainly about politics; local, national, party, office and sexual.

You use the old "I want to make a difference and help people" line which they don't buy if they know you. When you eventually declare that it boils down to a love for the game, the fight and the all encompassing glory that comes with winning then the person opposite you excuses themselves and leaves.

I've gotten to the stage where I now tell people or members of my family that I have a fetish for powerful men in suits, the aroma of assumed power and the sound of the division bell. This still ends with them backing away and muttering darkly but at least it saves me going through the motions. You can knock back a lot more liquid when you don't have to bother trying to make with the small talk. 

For those of you wondering: yes, I am a fabulous dinner party guest!

Toodles.

Spring Forum and the Fake Tan of Death!

I learned a few things this weekend and no, I'm not talking about Conservative Party polices or No to AV campaign tips.

I will NEVER ever let the boss pick the music for a journey again.I had to sit there for hours as he swerved the car in time to either brass band music, The Bee Gees or Lilly Allen. I drew the line at Lilly f*cking Allen and asked him to pull over in the next layby so I could have a cigarette. As I stood there watching the traffic, the wind ruining my hair, I considered making a break for it. Would the boss have noticed if I'd turned on my heel and run screaming across the road side field? Probably.

The hotel was actually a B&B. More than a few of the rooms had scuffed boot prints against the doors but it had better carpet than Westminster Palace so it’s swings and roundabouts really. 

I accompanied the boss on Friday and Saturday night. I must say there wasn’t much of a vibe. Normally everyone is happy to get together, gossip and speculate but this time it felt flat and forced. Cardiff is great but let's face it boy and girls, it's no Brighton. At last year's Spring Forum I found myself at a house party sharing a bottle of something that tasted like strawberry 20/20 with a chick with a mohican. How I got from the Conservative Friends of Azerbaijan reception to sitting in an empty bath chatting with a girl who had more piecing than I have fingers, I'll never know.

Something I did notice about Spring Forum this year were the Cfers. I just can't tell whether they're getting younger or I'm getting older. Either way, I'm all for political zeal but there's a fine line between determination and desperation.
Ladies: if we want conference to be like a cattle market we would hold it where they film The Only Way is Essex. I swear there were times when senior MPs or indeed the Prime Minister would mingle with the norms and you couldn't hear yourself think over the dreamy sighes, excited giggles or the sound of a push-up bra being adjusted.

Regular readers will point out that I tend to wear inappropriate shoes to work but I do team these with tasteful blouses and pencil skirts. Live the stereotype, you know?

I blame the mixing of G&T, wine and champagne for the horrendous state that befell me Saturday morning. It’s bad enough waking up in a hotel room and forgetting where you are for a few seconds but imagine waking up on a hotel room floor. Thank god for the half decent carpet.

As I tweeted over the weekend, I did on more than one occasion either hear my name being said or was party to a conversation about me. It seems that this little diary has certainly sent tongues wagging! Dear readers please remember, sometimes the fun is in the not knowing. Or in my case, the fun is in other people not knowing. I am in politics after all.

Roll on Manchester I say.

"We've gone on holiday by mistake!"

We're heading to Cardiff tomorrow (Friday) and I've been set on Go Felicity, go! since the break of dawn. It's been a long day and I'm writing this at my desk. It's still sticky from where I dropped my coffee. Thankfully it went over the keyboard and paperwork rather than my dress.

No drunk MPs today. Quite the opposite in fact with the boss declaring a dry spell until he reaches sunny Wales. I can only take him at his word of course. For all I know he was necking something from the drinks cabinet when no one was looking. It wouldn't be the first time...

I will endeavour to get some gossip or stories from conference but I worry it will just end up like last year. I was either drunk, hungover or drunk with a hangover. Brighton is a very hilly place to visit and I didn't take any flats. It was sheer effing torture.

I would be tempted to dump the boss and do my own thing but if we team up we both win. He has someone young and attractive (if I do say so myself) with him making sure he sticks to the plan and I have someone paying for my drinks for the whole weekend. At £10 for a G&T that sounds like a good plan.

Dear readers, I will love you and leave you now. Feel free to email, comment or tweet me if you're in Wales or if you have anything juicy. I may even post pics if I am sent them.

I'll be the blonde at the bar...

A Day of Near Misses

Today was a day of near misses. I nearly got knocked down by a black cab outside Charing Cross station just before lunch and then I was nearly knocked down by Nicholas Soames outside a committee room. Bulldozer in human form that man.

Heels are not ideal when running about London and even less so on the wet cobblestones that make up the front of the Palace. I could wear trainers when I'm darting about but then how will the old boys know when to look about for a perve if they can't hear the tip tap of a lady's shoes? As my dear old granny used to say "underwear comes and goes but you must never be without heels and a pearl necklace, Felicity dear." Both this statement and the accompanying wink confused my eleven year old self but by heck the old bird was right!

I managed to spend a precious few hours in the office today. The only highlight was when someone tried to unlock the door (which wasn't locked) without knocking. The posties tend to knock but every now and then some rude so and so just walks in. I leapt for the door in a hope of catching the git only to be greeted by a confused and swaying MP.

"Who are you?"

"Felicity. Who are you?"

"Is this my office?"

"Almost 100% sure it isn't. Unless this is you." I pointed to the name on the door.

"S'not me. Cocking hell I must be on the wrong floor..." And with that he stumbled away. 

I didn't recognise him right away but I can confirm that he wasn't a member of either of the two major parties. Nice to know it's not just my boss who suffers from 'Long-Lunchitis.'

Toodles