I was in the House the other night — not my house you understand, a girl has to have a life. No, I was in the Houses of Parliament for a little champagne soiree being thrown by some Tory friends of my acquaint who were celebrating Tiresome Tony about to lose some big vote about student oiks. In the bag it was apparently.
Naturally I didn’t want to hear any of the weary details so I just stuck my nose in the old trough and snuckled up enough shampoo to refloat the Titanic. Well, that’s my excuse for what happened next.
One minute I was yawning down some Bolly and the next the scrumdiddlyumptious MP for Stud Muffington-On-Wye had dragged me into the first floor lavatorials with the intention of persuading me to let him go through the yes lobby. As you know darlings I normally have little interest in the introduction of a private members bill but I was absolutely squiffled. There I was, just about to be formally introduced to the honourable member, when the door opened and someone else entered the little boy’s room. In fact there was two of them — nice David Blunkett and that sweet doggy that guides him around the place.
We were as quiet as the quietest of little church mice but I could barely conceal a girlish giggle when I saw what he was doing. Poor dear Mr Blunkett wasn’t standing in front of his urinal properly at all and was actually widdling all over the floor. And his shoes. And his poor dog Lucy. I really did hope that she was going to dry herself off by rubbing against roly-poly Prescott’s legs. Horrid man.
Now you would have thought that the presence of the Home Secretary might just have cooled the ardour of the junior minister for something not very important at all. Au contraire. The dirty beast was keener than ever and he indicated that he wanted me to post the first vote in a silent ballot. Well darlings, I did say I was tashered.
So it was that I found myself kneeling on the floor of a two-hundred-year-old toilet engaged in important dialogue with a member of Her Majesty’s Government while the Home Secretary blissfully piddled on his loafers. The poor chap never knew a thing but his poor mutt looked particularly startled. I guess she hadn’t seen the like since Mo Mowlam gave old Blunkers the elbow. Oh did I say that out loud?
Mr Blunkett eventually dragged his dripping doggy back into the chamber — which seemingly gave the junior minister some fresh ideas of his own — and we were left to finish our discussion in relative peace. I did eventually succeed in calling him to order but I did have to bang his gavel a few times to get his attention.
He suggested we gave the bill a second reading but no longer being quite so terribly trousered — it is amazing how quickly one can sober up when one spots a piece of offending residue on one’s best Via Spigas — I politely declined.
And just as well it was too. When we left the confines of the gents we found there were five other members impatiently awaiting our emergence. It seems that word had got round that Lady P was on familiar terms with New Labour and they all wanted to personally find out if it were true. Ulrika!
Darlings I implore you not mention a word of this to a soul. Think of the damage to my reputation. If people got to thinking I was friendly with the bolshies then I’d never be able to show my face at the club again.
But sweeties, imagine what. The Labourites were so busy convincing me of the merits of the single transferable vote that they quite forgot the time. All six of them were going to vote against those bally top-up fees thingies and it meant that Tiresome Tony squeaked through and won the day. Yikes. Henny Throckmorton’s brother Bill is a Tory whip and if he finds out I spiked his rebellion jape then bang goes my chances of getting their chalet in Kloisters.
Oh darlings, what is a girl to do? Pass me the bottle and throw away the cork.