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