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It's hard

  Tue 8th September 2015

Apologies for the several mistakes in an earlier version of this post. I was very tired.

Went up to see my Mum over in Middlesbrough. Got back and two weeks later, she rings me, voice cracking, to tell me that the last of her brothers has died. "It's just us [sisters] left now."

I was in the pub the other day when our local MP walked in with a couple of friends for a drink. She's definitely the most attractive and well-dressed member of the House. I dashed over to her as she was about to leave and congratulated her on defying the leadership and voting against the latest Bill to punish the poor, and for mentioning fracking in her maiden speech. To my astonishment, when I mentioned my uncommon Christian name, she knew my surname, and talked me into going on a phone bank at the Labour Hall to ring up existing members of the Labour Party to try to persuade them to vote for Jeremy Corbyn in the leadership election.

I was given a mobile phone, a list of numbers, and an instruction not to leave messages. It was in a run-down hall in Scotforth. I was offered a "drink". I declined, thinking it the usual shredded tea or instant coffee, but one of the choices was a homemade wine, which was viscous and heady. I noticed that, as the new boy, I did most of the actual work, while they had those self-reflecting conversations for which people sometimes join political parties.

Our MP met me outside and I felt myself melting with a lack of self-control. She was wearing this gorgeous scooped, high-necked dress of black and white dots, black tights, and black flatties. Sex. I want to have sex with you.

Kim came over for a few days most of which we spent in Liverpool. On our way up to the station, we passed by the gorgeous ginger-haired Irish girl I had my one and only date with a few months ago. See what I've got now, I said, silently lying to myself and her.

Kim was being fickle. I thought we were going to the Jackson Pollock exhibition at the Tate right up until the last moment, so we never got further than the shop, where I stole seven postcards and a rubber.

We walked back and she diverted us into a dog-rough pub, a proper boozer, where we were instantly accepted. I like how she's fearless about walking into pubs that almost all my middle class friends would eschew, with a mixture of fear and their sense of the boundaries of class. If you look up the pub on YT, you get a video of a woman kicking shit out of a bloke outside, entitled "Prozzer v Drunk, Liverpool".

Back at the hotel, we got into bed and my fingertips crept across towards her. It was hard being in bed with Kim, in more ways than one, but that's not allowed, so I didn't touch her, even though I was longing to do so.

The next morning she suggested scrapping breakfast for cocktails, so we had Bellinis at 11am. On the train back to mine, we got talking to the couple at the next table. I found out the female half was originally from Morecambe, and the fact that we'd asynchronously gone to the same school turned us into bestie mates. They seemed OK so I offered them a wee line of my speed. He was modest about it, but she dug into the bag and shovelled two large artificial nails-full of it up her nose.

She lit up a cigarette. A teenage boy came over and told her that she couldn't do that. “Oh it's OK, love, don't worry about that.” They invited us back to their house in Wigan. No.

At Preston station, I fancied a last drink. The man poured a pint of Heineken and asked me for £4.20. "Four twenty?" I said. "We're in Lancashire, not Surrey. Sorry mate, I'm not paying that." We walked out and he poured it down the drain.


Sex with an MP. It could go either way. It might be a horror or it might be the night of your life. Make her wear a judicial robe.

How do you sleep with her but restrain yourself? Isn’t it sublime torture?

£4.20 = $6.45. For a pint? I’d have done the same.

Wed 9th September 2015 @ 12:04
Comment from: [Member]

Unfortunately, with the MP, it’s generally known that I have the wrong colour eyes for her, if you see what I mean.

Yes – it doesn’t help that Kim is, in Kitty’s word’s “sparklingly attractive.”

In London you might be able to get away with it. Not up here though — we haven’t got that kind of cash in black pudding country!

Wed 9th September 2015 @ 12:12
Comment from: [Member]

An MP? That’d be one for the bucket list… i was chatted up by a municipal judge once… a conservative country boy lawyer, who made it to the top of the bench. i suspect if i’d been a bit more submissive and batted my eyes at him a bit, it could have become a date… but that’s not my gig…

Fri 11th September 2015 @ 03:25
Comment from: [Member]

Yes…she’s very pretty, wears glasses, is young and powerful. It’s a heady combination.

You’ve got to get the power balance right in sex – I felt that me and Donna had that perfectly without anything ever being said about it. In real life she was well-paid and had a senior position in a pharmaceutical firm. In bed (or the kitchen, or on the settee, or on the stairs) she wanted to be treated like a slut. I still miss her.

Fri 11th September 2015 @ 07:12
Comment from: [Member]

I chatted up the Queen Mum’s grand-niece while playing at their shack, but I was actually thrown out for filching wine.

Wed 16th September 2015 @ 17:56
Comment from: furtheron [Visitor]

well at least you’d be the only one in the country to have f***ed an MP rather than all the rest of us continually being f***ed by ours… good luck on that endeavour. Also might be able to earn from dosh from selling it to a fascist Sunday rag.

Wed 23rd September 2015 @ 11:12
Comment from: [Member]

Ha ha Trebots, that’s brilliant!

F… Me and the MP are never going to end up fucking but if we did, I wouldn’t even mention it on here.

Wed 23rd September 2015 @ 14:03

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