A Whore in The Kitchen and a Cook in The Bedroom

For those of you who haven't seen my latest post over at Total Politics you can read it here. 

At the weekend I made an effort to cook. And I'm not just talking about toast or reheating something my flatmate cooked, no I mean a proper dinner with starters and deserts. Why would I waste a perfectly good Saturday in my kitchen when it could be spent shopping, sleeping or catching up on Merlin? Because of a man.

I'm waiting for the Sisterhood to moan about what they will see as a man domesticating a woman but they should wait until the end.

For the purpose of this diary I will call the man in question John. I met John recently and due to his tall stature, broad shoulders and handsome, chiselled features, I decided that he needed to get his cute little behind into my bedroom pronto. Mix in that he's a Tory and a well paid nerd and we have a winning combination. Congratulation John, you have been selected for a few rounds of Felicity frolics!

I don't have a problem asking men out, life is too short to play the maiden so inviting John around to mine for dinner was pretty straight forward. “Hmm yeah, that's very interesting. You know, I think you should have dinner at mine at the weekend. That way you get to try my rather excellent cooking and I get to learn more about what you do for a living. It would make for an interesting evening don't you think?” 99% success rate with that one. Never mind the fact I can't cook nor did I find any interest in cloud computing. All I know is that my dining table is within staggering distance to my bedroom.

I should have known my plans would go awry when I woke up on my friend's sofa at 11am, Saturday morning, the karaoke machine still buzzing away and a Simon Cowell mask sellotaped to my face. John would be at mine in eight hours and in my hungover state I knew this would not be enough time to shop for ingredients, cook, clean the flat and tart myself up. Had I learned nothing from all those hours watching Come Dine With Me? Something had to be sacrificed and it was to be the shopping.

A decision I later came to regret when the can of cream of mushroom soup in the back of the cupboard turned out to be cream chicken and mushroom and rather than having cream cheese to add to my beef stroganoff, I had to substitute with Dairylea triangles. Thankfully there was more than enough alcohol in the flat to keep me lubricated while hoovering and hair curling. The stroganoff looked like baby sick, the salad starter had wine spilt on it and I'd eaten half the desert ice cream. But dear readers, I looked amazing and I felt as smug as Speaker Bercow no doubt does when he's walking past tourists in the Central Lobby so I cared not a jot.

On the night I had asked John out, I had been so concerned with trying to work out what he would look like without his clothes on that I hadn't paid all that much attention to what he'd said. After 30 minutes of his arrival at mine I was bored. He was a lovely chap with a cute smile but the personality never expanded beyond agreeing with everything David Cameron said and programming software. Did I think the Big Society would have benefited from a name change? Should Conservative Future stick with the same Chairman? Should CCHQ stick with Merlin or find another system? I perked up at that point until I realised we weren't talking about knights and wizards. With a sigh I knocked back another glass.

I'd had enough at this point and promptly told him to help me get the ice cream from the kitchen. My kitchen is tiny and it's hard for two people to move around in there. To cut a long story short I was up against the fridge quite quickly and John, thankfully, wasn't talking anymore.

Was it worth it? Yes and no. Sadly any hopes I had had of uncovering a rampant sex god under the pleasant, introverted surface were dashed when he climbed onto my bed wearing nothing but his socks, and declaring “Landslide victory!” at the end of any intimate encounter should be made illegal. I won't use this post as a platform to criticise the man's technique cough-stamina-cough but I will confirm that afterwards I told him he had 15 minutes to get his breath back and then I would be taking over. No ifs, no buts. And as predicted: he did look gooood without a stitch on.

I have a sneaking suspicion he's going to ask me out to lunch in the coming weeks so maybe there's room for potential but only if he's prepared to sit through 'Felicity's guide to doing bad things in good ways' lesson.

After all - 'If you want something said, ask a man...if you want something done, ask a woman.'

Toodles! x

I like my men pretty and silent!

On Wednesday I struck a tourist with my handbag. It's not something I'm proud of to be honest as the tourist in question could be technically described as a child. Okay... it was a child of about ten but if I say "please get out of the way, I'm in a hurry" and the brat just laughs and proceeds to kick at my shoes then I am going to get angry.

The reason for my haste was over on the Green giving an interview about phone hacking. There's nothing quite like sitting in a very boring meeting in PCH only then to get a text message saying Hugh Grant is on the Green looking f*ckable! I made my excuses and slipped out of the meeting with my knickers in a twist (may as well call a spade a horny spade) but the distance and traffic worked against me despite being a vision in red.

Dear Hugh...I love you. I think we would work well together as I'm half your age and very rarely sober. Call me!

Sports is Sporting, What What?

I am tempted to apologise for the late posting but I won't. I was somewhat distracted last night and I can say with a great deal of exuberance that it was bloody well worth it. Said distraction would also be the reason behind my lateness to the office this morning and the huge grin I'm sporting. I can confirm dear readers that I am indeed currently without regret or frustration. Don't worry, I won't bore you with anymore details about my sex life but let’s just say that I am rather glad I went to the Sports and Social last night.
  
No emails from the boss this morning. I was concerned until I found a post-it on my desk.

'FIX MY SODDING OUTLOOK. Please?'

I can only imagine how long he was here last night shouting at his laptop, punching random buttons before finally slamming it shut and then violating the stationary on my desk. It's taken me all of five minutes to solve the problem. We get BBC News emails sent automatically to us. It's bloody annoying as hundreds come through every day and take up space. Turns out the boss never knew about these and had not noticed the ten thousand BBC emails in his unread file.
I've never read these emails and if there is a way to stop them then I am all ears. Maybe we can get Sky News to send through information instead...

And before he mentions it, yes we do get Paul Waugh's very fine emails as well. x

"Who did I prefer: Lord Flashheart or Baldrick...?"

The AV referendum can be now be explained in the most simplest of terms if like me you are a shallow person.

Which of these two men do you like best? 

Woof!

Nice....hat?

Or another way is to say "Who did I prefer: Lord Flashheart or Baldrick...?"
 

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.

Wales, Zak Goldsmith and the Peculiar Practice of Tom Watson

Today was cold. So cold in fact that even the sound of a Welsh choir couldn’t warm my cockles. I walked through a busy Westminster Hall and heard singing but with the cram of bodies I couldn't see where it was originating from. I had a brief panic filled moment where I thought ‘I've finally lost my marbles, I’m too young!’ Turns out it was just the St David’s Day celebration. And my hangover.

I became caught up in the crowd for the Speaker’s Procession again today. I swear he does it on purpose! At least I was standing near Richard Drax who does look a heck of a lot better in person. Oh this reminds me, I must stop perving over the male MPs when they can see me. I do believe I said to a colleague “There’s Zak ‘phwoar look at his arse’ Goldsmith!” as I passed Zak in the lobby. I have feeling that he might be able to read lips, you know.

I’m sure there will be at least one dear reader pointing to the above and crying sexist. I don’t care and if you hadn’t figured that out after reading about the bum slapping in previous posts then there’s no hope for you.

01/03/11 17:55 GMT - Tom Watson stood up in the House and didn’t slag anyone off. Quite the opposite, he rose and thanked the Home Secretary for her work on Cowboy Clampers. The chamber was shocked and perplexed. Has someone been slipping something into his tea? It would explain the rosy glow and happy smile on his face. 

Tom if you’re reading this, and I hear you're a fan, I am of course joking. I know your drug is chocolate...

Toodles for now.

Recess: Felicity's Dos and Don'ts

• Do keep a dictaphone in your desk drawer for the moment your boss makes a 'decision' because even though they never change their minds, they do in fact always change their minds. Evidence is key!

• Don't joke to a hack that the boss isn't answering his phone because he's tied up and wearing a ball gag.

• Do get your personal shopping delivered to the Parliamentary Estate because there's always someone to sign for it. If your boss is a union basher then be prepared for the deliveries to be somewhat scuffed.  

• Don't say yes to any old workplace dare otherwise you will find yourself in a position where you have to buy a novelty tie as a birthday present for a senior frontbencher. Cue my exasperated sigh.

• Do try to build friendships with the policemen on the Parliamentary Estate. At some point you'll drunkenly approach one of them after leaving the Sports and slur the words "Evening officer. Do you want to handcuff and pat me down?" They are less likely to take offence if they know you.

• Don't bother setting up a 'We Love Fraser Nelson Club'. He is all too aware of his totty status and never responds to club invites. I'm not bitter.

Wednesday Ping-Pong Fun Time!

I came into work today to find picture of Ed balls printed, cut out and sellotaped around my PC screen. Surely that counts as bullying in the work place? I know of one MP’s office where the Member has pictures of Kelly Brooke on his desk and his staff have little cut outs of George Osborne. I won’t mention names but they know who they are.

The work experience lad wants to be an MP. This wouldn’t be a problem except that today he asked which party was in opposition. I fear for the future, I really do.

The Government Whip’s email about tonight’s vote came through. There were suggestions that Member's 'get their camp beds out' as they were in for a long night. ‘Fab Michael’ titled the email PING-PONG TONIGHT. I wonder how many MPs read that and went to that special pervy place in their heads. A lot on our side no doubt.

I tried printing out 153 letters today to respond to the forest lobbying. We could have sent emails but I wanted them to appreciate the point of the wasted paper. Of course the good old HP printers we all enjoy in these offices chose not to comply. Anything more than two pages at a time and we were greeted with a reboot. There was a brief moment when I considered telling the boss to leave the office while I ‘accidentally’ knocked the printer to the ground. By that I mean take a run at it and really put my body weight into pushing it off the desk. 
I didn’t take this option in the end. Instead I called PICT and requested an engineer visit...again. 


To the S&S!

EDIT:  Many thanks to Spellman for the forest u-turn. I now have to re-do EVERY letter!

No Votes for Druggy Gnomes

The boss was in the office before me today which goes to show how busy it was going to be. The hacks were circling every MP in an attempt to get something juicy. I spotted Paul Waugh sprinting out of Moncrieff's at one point like he had scented blood.

It has already been tweeted by other sources but I heard today from a Member that Anne Main MP was visited by someone from No.10 this morning and told to withdraw the 'no prisoner compensation' amendment she had put forward. 

They do seem to be a little confused as to what they wanted out of this 'prisoner vote' debate. Dave was sick to his stomach but wouldn't give a straight answer at PMQs, some MPs were saying they were being nudged by Whips to rebel but then the Government line went out mid-afternoon by email to all Members, it was just as vague and wet as the PM had been. 

When I was in my teens I had a friend who tried sniffing aerosol cans and he told me he once hallucinated a garden gnome snowboarding through his bedroom window, flying round the room before melting in front of him while screaming the national anthem. He didn't touch the things after that and tended to leave the room whenever God Save the Queen came on the TV during a sporting event. 

However confusing or weird that little story might seem to you, I still think it makes more sense than Downing Street's game plan on the ECHR and prisoner votes.

I noticed this on Eye Spy MP today - Stanley Johnson seen eating a cheese sandwich in Bellamys with Neil Parish MP. Stanley has a mischievous twinkle in his eye.

I am gutted for not seeing him in person. Stanley Johnson is a legend if for nothing else other than helping to create Boris. Cripes!

This neatly brings me onto 'Hotties in the House' or as Guido likes to call it - Totty Watch. I will have to agree with some of chaps he has on there; Goldsmith, Mogg, Hancock and Kelly but what about Drax and Gummer from the new intake? Yes...I know. I discuss the important subjects here!

Derek wasn't in today but I know he somehow plans to attend tonight's staffers party. I wish him luck, especially as I hinted to the girls over lunch that he might have a little rash somewhere on his person. We have a new lad starting next week and I've already decided that the first thing he has to do is watch the Speaker's Procession through Central Lobby whilst wearing a crown. It's the little things in life.

Anyhoo the work day is over, the motion was carried and I now have to go and get my slap on for tonight. If this post doesn't go up until Sunday then you know I drank to much and cocked it up.

Toodles

Jude Law, Sally Bercow and the joys of IPSA

Monday 31^st January

So the day didn't start out great. It does not bode well for the week ahead when you manage to slam your face into a revolving door before 9am on a Monday morning. The beauty of the glass doors at the front of Portcullis House means that most if not everyone can see it happen. If they didn't then they sure as hell heard me swearing.

The boss arrived in the office around lunch time and proceeded to violate my desk with a 100 ratty bits of papers. I can only assume they were from his constituency meetings. I think anyone else would have accepted that their pen was on its way out but no not him! He kept writing notes until the only way for me to know what it said was to rub a pencil over the indentations. I consoled myself with pretending to be Indiana Jones for those few minutes.

Like all other staffers who are in any way attracted to a nice arse in a pair of designer trousers, I moseyed on down to clap my eyes on Mr Jude Law in the Atlee suit in PCH. Apparently he was here for a charity event rather than researching for a part he's playing. Sorry for coming across so crude so early but he can play with my parts any time he likes! Woof!

People will advise against going for a drink on a Monday night but as it’s by far the most stressful day of the week then surely it’s the idea time? Oh how I miss Bellamy’s Bar.

Tuesday 1^st February

The boss had very sneakily slipped a twenty minute meeting in just before midday leaving me with the instruction to greet a school tour group. The horror! I don't mind saying hello to the constituents if it’s a small group of one or two but two dozen ten year olds? No, no, no!
When one young lad asked me if I had been there since Thatcher I was tempted to point at the child and shout out “terrorist”. Bloody cheek, I'm not even thirty yet.

There are many reasons to ring up Facilities and complain but saying “I’m getting splinters from the bottom of my desk and I fear the next one will spear my ball bag!” is quite original. My work colleague is nothing if not dramatic. Props to him however for getting a reference to his groin in just about every phonecall he has made today. They just can’t teach that in school.

I made the mistake of seeking peace and quiet in the Sports & Social before 2pm. I am not the sort to drink alone (not at work anyway) so our intern, Derek was dragged in with me. He's the quiet sort who will only drink orange juice but will then probably go home and drop kick his neighbour's cat over the fence. I have my eye on him.

Wednesday 2^nd February

The highlight of the week, well in terms of chamber activity anyway was upon us but the weekly knock about was overshadowed by other issues. PMQs are one of the few times when we can be sure that the boss will be in the chamber. You can't guarantee it 100% though. I know a researcher who lost a bet and had to spend 30 minutes in the office, in his underwear and believed that PMQs would be the best time to fulfil said bet. Ridiculous error when you consider he could have just done it on a Friday.

Anyway I digress. Wednesday was all about trees. Effing forests and who was going to own them. Hundreds of lobby emails and letters covered every desk in our dingy little office. I must have had a dozen phone calls from people wanting to talk about 'asset stripping' which is sadly nowhere near as saucy as it sounds by the way.

Left the office around 19:30 and was nearly knocked on my arse by a Ministerial Jag. Can't the driver read? There are signs around that say 'DEAD SLOW'. That's not code for 'aim for the skirt crossing the car park'. My favourite pair of heels was scuffed as I jumped out of the way. No chance of claiming that on IPSA is there?

Thursday 3^rd February

Claims were published today by IPSA. With their website crashing or freezing I was being told to call them. Pointless really as we should just wait for the hacks to have a look and come to us with the info.

IPSA BITCH! I typed this across the open word document a dozen or so times as I was left hanging on the phone to our darling IPSA friends. We are all IPSA Bitches now. I’ve stopped the boss calling them after the unfortunate incident involving him having a panic attack as they started asking him questions about stationary and town hall hire. Nothing throws suspicion over you like yelling “I’m too fragile for prison!” down the phone at an Independent Authority. I don’t know why he got so worked up, it’s all above aboard. Anyway, this is why I deal with it all now.

Derek has put in a complaint to the boss that he feels he’s being bullied. Just goes to show that the youth of today are thin skinned. You stick one little note to someone’s suit jacket that reads ‘Noakes’ next victim’ and suddenly we all have to discuss ‘workplace relationships.’ I know for a fact the boss couldn’t have given a rat’s behind about the whole matter but Derek’s daddy works in the Foreign Office...

Around 4pm the boss handed me an A4 printout of Sally Bercow in a sheet and asked me to file it away for the weekend. I don’t get paid enough for this crap.
 

 Felicity