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“The Party Animal”
by Phil Driver
As well as being a DJ on QFM, I’m also an MP for the little-known North Yorkshire market town of Milkin-The-System.
My primary residence is just a short limo ride out of Milkin, but my secondary residence is in Marbella. My brother-in-law (sorry, my accountant) deletes the “Del Sol” on all the receipts relating to my Costa property and we put everything down as a “coffee allowance”.
I know that my secondary residence should, ideally, be within commuting distance of Westminster, but with the traffic in London these days, it’s quicker to travel to and from Spain. I catch the morning flight out of Malaga and I’m in my Commons office well before the end of MP’s lunch at 15:30. I do a couple of hours of “paperwork”, then I’m back on the evening flight home. It would be a pain if I had to do it every day, but once a month is just about bearable.
I don’t visit my primary UK residence up in Milkin very often, just the occasional trip to sort out important constituency issues. I was there last week in fact, overseeing the installation of electronic security gates at my 16th century mansion. It was a delicate operation, and not one that I could entrust to my Filipino servants.
I also popped into my local L.A. Fitness to renew my membership. I don’t use the gym myself, but all my family, friends and constituency office workers use it regularly. No-one in Milkin knows what I look like, so anyone can use my entry card without raising suspicion. My brother-in-law-cum-accountant crosses out the “Fitness” on the direct debit entry on my bank statement and we put it down as a “U.S. foreign travel expense”.
On returning to Spain earlier this week I had to call into the Lamborghini dealership to get the Murcielago serviced. Simon Cowell was in there, too. We’re not strangers, of course, because we often bump into each other at the teeth-whitening clinic in Marbella, but I didn’t know that he was a fellow lambo owner.
We stood chatting in the workshop as we watched the mechanics working on our pride and joys. “I’m worried about her,” Simon said, looking at his classic Miura up on the ramp. “I’ve pushed her too hard and now she’s acting up, making strange noises and becoming unreliable…” I wasn’t sure if he was talking about his car or Susan Boyle.
I’m not a great fan of reality TV, although I did watch The Apprentice. I fancied the blonde one with the gorgeous lips, sexy moves and a sultry smile; Sir Alan’s a lucky fella having Margaret Mountford as his assistant. Anyway, I was waiting for Kate to get the boot. We all know that she’ll be taking her kit off for a lads’ mag now that the BBC series is over, showing her full potential.
Talking of blondes with potential, my new Hungarian secretary-cum-personal-assistant has just texted me. She’s trying to use Photoshop to edit a receipt for a crate of Dom Perignon White Gold Jeroboam. I told her to airbrush out the “h” so that we can put it down as “campagne” expenses. Central office will assume she’s made a spelling mistake.
