Monday
Our new Expenses Helpline is completely jammed. We’re not even scratching the surface of the demand. Had an MP on this morning hysterical about his Sky subscription. Something about ‘buxom babes’ and ‘essential research into Broken Britain’. Another backbencher demanding to know what to do about his hunting fees — ‘Are they saying I can’t claim them back now? Ridiculous! It’s only £115 a month for a full subscription including field money.’ I said I thought it probably best if he didn’t, just until the fuss dies down. Then someone who wouldn’t give his name but, weirdly, sounded exactly like Wonky Tom. Said he’d recently claimed back the cost of paying a mole for leaked information about MPs’ expenses. I said he really ought to pay out of his own pocket next time. Am tired of all this talk of money and pornography. It’s perfectly horrid. And not at all what I came into politics for. Thank goodness we’ve got Mr Pickles’s party tonight. That ought to cheer us all up and be a bit of good, clean fun!
Tuesday
Eyes still stinging from the CS gas. Tried to ring in sick but Nigel said Jed said I was to get a certain part of my anatomy into the office or not to bother coming back ever again. Apparently I am a key witness. Can’t say I remember seeing much, on account of the clouds of gas. I’d spent a perfectly ghastly evening arguing with some journalist about how ‘we’re all the same’ — I pointed out this was not true, as I bet not a single Labour MP has claimed for a hunting subscription, which wiped the smile off his face and got him scribbling things on his hand. Anyway, got v squiffy on cheap white wine and Kerry Katona’s budget nibbles from Iceland (horrid, horrid) and was trying to find nearest loo to be sick when found self in mass brawl behind Speakers’ Chair. This sort of thing never happened when Mrs Spelperson was party chairperson. And there was Chardonnay and smoked salmon then too. The serious point being — what were we expecting when we served the sort of finger food we served last night? We must take some responsibility. And I shall say as much if the police ask me.
Wednesday
A sinister development on the Helpline this morning. An MP who doesn’t claim anything back called to say he’s been getting anonymous phone calls from someone with an East End accent telling him to ‘start putting receipts in or we’ll have to pay you a little visit, my son’. I advised him that in the current climate it was probably best, on balance, to put through something, nothing heavy, just enough to blend in, a couple of carpets from John Lewis and some window cleaning perhaps.
Am now devoting myself fully to the exciting preps for Barack’s visit! His people have been on to say how much he’s looking forward to taking time out from having to see ‘Gordon Blair’ to enjoy a few precious hours with ‘Darren’ — I think we can assume they mean Dave!
Thursday
Major Class A panic! Barack’s people just phoned to say he’s sick of eating ‘James Olivier’s easy pasta bake’ and is really looking forward to some elegant European haute cuisine. As Jed so poignantly said: ‘F***ing hell!’ We’ll have to phone Hugh and persuade him to scrap the River Cottage ferret fricassee! Wonder if he can do an eel souffle??
Comments