Anthony – Pious? Moi? (Lib Dem)

Anthony made his money in the City. A few deals, a few words in the right ear, a merger here, an acquisition there and then Big Corp came along and bought his business. Before he could blink he was worth squillions and still only 40.

So what to do? Retirement wasn’t an option; Anthony is frankly horrified by his own company and golf and fishing bore him to tears. With full belief in his own massive capabilities and a sense of self-esteem that even Jesus would have found immodest, Anthony decided to ‘serve’.

But who would be the lucky party that would benefit from his wonderful talents? He began the process in the same way he used to analyse the markets. Labour at that time were in power but Anthony knew that the pendulum would swing, so they were ticked off the list. The Tories were bouncing back but had a big pool of talent to choose from – he would simply have no chance of rapid advancement there, so they too were ticked off the list. The Lib Dems were thereby, almost by default, the party that Anthony chose to honour with his membership.

As his predictions proved correct so Anthony’s star has been in the ascendant. Never one for holding back, his standing in the party is high and his future looks positive. The awestruck punters down in his Dorset constituency love him to bits, mainly because he throws such great parties and they do like to see their boy on telly. And Anthony simply loves being on telly.

As a principle-free zone, he had no trouble sucking up the rather odd policy smorgasbord of the party. He’s as Green as a cucumber, he’s a civil libertarian, he’s a passionate pro-European and he cares deeply, so very, very deeply, for the poor and the weak.
Not of course that he believes in any of that guff; the only thing he deeply believes in is the undisputed beauty of his own voice.

Luckily he is a natural performer and can squeeze every drop of emotion from his frequent interviews; he bitterly attacks anyone who has the temerity to disagree with him and snidely manages to brief against anyone he sees as a threat on his own side. Anthony doesn’t just deliver passionate bleatings from the moral high ground, he owns the moral high ground, and fights tooth and nail to ensure that no other bugger else strays onto his property.

He managed to ride out the expenses storm with some real luck. Despite having more money in the bank than the GDP of some African countries Anthony still felt it appropriate to claim as much as he could. His flipping was of Olympic standard and the receipts from his frequent First Class travel to the Caribbean on dubious fact-finding missions were, thankfully, mislaid. It was a tight time but somehow he got away with it.

With a loyal wife he’s learnt to despise, and houses and flats in Poole, Chelsea, Paris and Edinburgh, Anthony is frequently absent from the marital home during the year and opportunities to indulge in his rather alarming sexual proclivities are significant and far-reaching.

Very much like the proclivities themselves.

Peter – Islington Royalty (Labour)

With such impeccable credentials Peter could only ever have become an MP. Having a Marxist actress as a Mummy and the chair of the Fabians as a Daddy, Peter sucked up ideology along with his vegetarian rusks and soya milk. His earliest memories are of playing with his non-violent fuzzy-felt under the dining table whilst the grown ups above argued and debated the end of Capitalism, the outrage of Grunwick and ‘this really rather fabulous Sancerre’.

A bit of a loner growing up, Peter never went to Scouts (right-wing youth militia), Sunday school (establishment brainwashing), or to watch the Arsenal (far too dangerous for one so sensitive as you dear), but instead broke bread with various Mortimers and Toynbees and learnt how to make fresh pasta from a Redgrave. He went to a progressive secondary school in Highbury but, sadly, was bullied on the bus and ended up at Charterhouse where he shone academically but attained almost complete social invisibility.

Summers would be spent in various rambling villas around Europe where Peter would sketch the landscape with an admirable lack of talent, read improving political works and, as time went on, begin to join the chat at dinner with the various house-guests invited from similar socialist backgrounds. Whilst his upbringing prepared a fertile seedbed for Peter’s radicalism the first germination of his progressive outrage occurred when he found out that the workers’ households couldn’t afford to take 8 weeks off in the summer. Until that moment Peter had assumed that the rest of Britain simply stopped during July and August and then went back to work in September.

On arriving at Oxford to take the inevitable PPE, Peter made strong friendship links with other metropolitan progressive thinkers, many of whom have subsequently become very strong colleagues in the party at Westminster. He shunned the sports field and the social arena preferring so much more an evening of intense discussion around a roaring radiator with some Fairtrade cocoa, a packet of vegan muffins and some like-minded folk from Somerville and St. Hilda’s.

Post-University, Peter’s work experience involved crunching numbers for a Left-Wing think tank, a stint as a SpAD for the then Home Secretary and writing the occasional, incomprehensible article for the Guardian.

‘Selected’ for an old mining constituency, Peter at last managed to travel further north than Hertfordshire by the time he was 27. Initially confused by the reaction he got from the selection committee (and thinking it was probably their accent he was misunderstanding), he was unsuprised yet still rather gratified to become their MP well before his 30th birthday.

Peter cares very deeply about the workers and knows that it’s only a matter of time before he gets to talk to one.

Rupert – Not A Clue (Conservative)

Rupert is an optimist. His glass is forever half-full mainly because so few of his colleagues ever offer to buy him a drink; not that he notices of course. From Monday lunchtime to Thursday evening Rupert bumbles around the Palace in a permanent state of confusion and bewilderment. Twice he’s turned up on a Monday during the recess, only to be gently turned round by a policeman and pointed back to the Tube. On Saturdays he sits at an old rickety desk in a village hall staring in abject incomprehension at his whining constituents.

No-one could ever accuse Rupert of being a bad MP but his grasp of affairs, policies and implications is weak; so weak as to be a source of never ending wonder to the Whips office. They have largely given up on explaining the nuances of policy to Rupert. It was rumoured they were thinking of using alphabet blocks and an abacus at one time but it was too time consuming.  Nowadays they just mouth ‘aye’ or ‘no’ to him and off he trundles as good as gold.

He never gives interviews to press or TV (perish the thought), and his thoughts on the EU, Fiscal Policy, Home Affairs or Youth Justice are unknown to all but him. And in truth that means pretty non-existent. As far as Rupert is concerned Defence is something an Irishman builds to stop the ponies from straying.

After a mediocre career in a 4th Division Infantry Regiment where his progress was glacial, his wherewithal limited and his promotions rare, his career options on leaving the Brigade were rather patchy to say the least. Cousin Bertie had had a chat with him about Investment Banking but realised before they’d even finished the Tio Pepe that the City could probably get along quite well without his attentions. Then Uncle Franky had had a go and nosed around to see if there was a sinecure at the Jockey Club, had immediate second thoughts on meeting him for lunch at Simpsons, and so passed him on to Reginald down in Hampshire.

Dear old Reggie, mad as a warthog and going a bit ga-ga but still an enormous power in the Meon Valley, pulled a few strings and Rupert was selected as the PPC on a unanimous vote before the greasy cold collation had even been removed from its clingfilm.

Rupert has, sadly, made few chums in the House Of Commons although Graham Dreary, the Lib Dem member for Cornwall Slag Heap, is a pretty constant companion. Just like Rupert, Graham hasn’t a bloody clue what’s going on either and they have formed a mutual bond which mainly involves having lunch together and talking about the previous night’s television programming. That and whatever appears to be in the papers.

The little papers. Not the big ones.

MPs: A Spotter’s Guide

If you have the misfortune to hang around Westminster for long enough it’s likely you’ll spot, bump into or have your possessions removed by one of these characters.

You have two options: start collecting your sightings in a little book, or get the hell out of SW1.

It’s up to you.

Oh and btw, these are archetypes, they’re not real people, nor are they intended to be so. Just in case anyone is that stupid to think that they are…