Monday
I hate it when people start talking in acronyms. It always means trouble. The inquest into the Chiz and Bromley by-election is called ‘BBI’. The official line is we haven’t yet achieved full ‘brand penetration’ — or ‘BP’ — which, according to Jed, will only come when we get lift-off with our ‘Cameron Localisation Strategy’ or ‘CLS’. Nigel says this is nonsense. What we’re looking at is a ‘TFU’ (total you-know-what). After seeing little Bob Neill (‘our newest MP!’) at the away day, I’m inclined to agree. He’s almost invisible to the naked eye. When Poppy and I arrived he was talking to Alan Duncan, who was craning his neck downwards. Poppy made tasteless joke — about a pixies’ convention — but luckily we were lost in a sea of pastel shirts and corduroy trousers by then so nobody noticed. P said it looked like a Boden catalogue had exploded in a home for the bewildered. We got slightly drunk on mini bottles we’d crammed into our handbags to relieve the boredom. Lots of talk of Vod-casting, which may or may not have been a Smirnoff-related activity. Brian Walden made a nice speech about how brilliant Dave is. Then Dave slapped him on the back and said, ‘I think Lord Walden sounds just the ticket, don’t you?’ Is this legal? It’s the summer party tonight. Am going in a little Versace number that cost two months’ wages and a loan from the BoD (Bank of Daddy). V. extravagant while half mankind starving, etc., but am on same table as Tamara Mellon, so have had to put new caring world vision on hold.
Tuesday
Am never going to drink and/or go to Tory fundraising balls again. Can’t recover from sight of John Redwood racing Nicholas Soames to the dance floor. Nor the sight of the pair of them doing the crocodile rock. Forced to cover eyes with napkin for fear of sustaining lasting psychological damage. You know things are bad when Peter Stringfellow steps in to persuade a senior member of the shadow Cabinet to go home because he’s making an exhibition of himself with an underwear model. And that was before the welly-throwing contest. Everyone hung over and bad-tempered today, except Mr Maude, who is ecstatic because he’s had bad poll results. He keeps striding through office singing, ‘36 per cent! 36 per cent! Ee-aye down we go, 36 per cent!’
Wednesday
Tricky day drafting letter from Dave to Frank Lampard commiserating over his missed penalty. Is this helping the vulnerable or getting too close to a loser? It’s all v. well everyone slapping each other on back about Dave and Sam being most sought-after couple in British society, but this ‘star hugging’ is really difficult to get right. We got into dreadful trouble over a letter to Elton John asking for his support ‘now that we are within a hair’s breadth of winning the next election’.
Thursday
Disaster. Was in Starbucks getting Jed’s iced caramel latte. Put folder full of printed emails from Dave to Julian about secret policy stuff down on counter, only for a second. When I went to pay it was gone. ‘Oops’ doesn’t quite cover it. May have to top self….
tamzin.lightwater@spectator.co.uk
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