therealpm: (I don't think so)
*He's been semi concious for about half an hour (fucking birds and their fucking dawn chorus) by the time his alarm goes off at six. He rolls over to tap it off and nearly falls when the bed turns out to be a sofa and the bedside table turns out to not exist.


He rubs the sleep and remnants of last night's glamour charm off his face and goes to make two cups of tea. There's no signs of life from upstairs but perhaps that's to be expected. John's campaign thus far has reeked of indolence at every level. Peter will have to set about sorting that (and their finances) later - for now he needs to get Bercow out doorstepping.

There's a heavy copper-bottomed pan hanging from the wall. By the look of it, it's never been used for anything other than show. He grabs a ladle and gives it an experimental thwack.*




*Peter pauses, from the muffled cursing and thuds as various objects are knocked to the floor, it would appear that upstair's occupant has finally awoken.*

therealpm: (Plotting)
I did hope that my comments at last week's dinner might have encouraged our frontbench to be slightly better at dissecting Osborne's populist shambles of a budget (endured in the midst of some very dubious company). It is therefore somewhat disappointing to note that the Tories were savaged more effectively by their own leadership than by ours, a situation likely to become only more frequent with Mr Miliband's lamentable departure.

therealpm: (Mr Bond)
*Peter wakes early, still bouyed up by the election results and heads downstairs for a cup of tea and a yoghurt. His phone buzzes as the kettle boils. An update from The Machine.

Sipping his tea slowly, he scrolls through the results and nearly spills it everywhere when he reaches The Machine's conclusions, which have been carefully bolded so he can't possibly miss them. A quick enquiry confirms that the results have been double, triple and quadruple checked- there is no uncertainty.

Grinning, he types out a text message.*

Text from 07### ######


your presence is required. ASAP.


*He sips his tea again, considering how to procede. A little background music wouldn't go amiss.*
therealpm: (Thinking)
*Prior to the balloon trick, Miles had been content to let his younger brother take the lead in devising and implementing the pranks, however, when he'd seen a rather shaken younger sibling standing in the middle of a living room covered entirely in popped House of Commons balloons, he'd taken a rather more active interest.  Which was why yesterday afternoon, after some brief enquiries as to exactly how much mass Peter could transport and with what accuracy, he'd driven Peter to a pharmacy several towns away (he wouldn't say why they couldn't go to the one in the village, just turned up the radio when Peter asked.  As it was Radio 4 this wasn't particularly effective, but Peter took the hint and stared out of the car window instead).

Peter stayed in the car, reaching over the back seat to pet the two dogs, whilst Miles went into the Chemist's, returning red faced and clutching a paper bag.  He'd tossed the bag into Peter's lap with a gruff instruction to 'get that into the little bastard's tea tomorrow morning, and make sure he drinks all of it'.

And so, the next morning at 7am, Peter finds himself sleepily drawing a rune circle and checking the omniview on his phone- waiting for the optimum moment to lace the Speaker of the House of Commons's tea with viagra.*
therealpm: (Damn)
*Peter wakes up slowly, and once again, dresses cautiously. The wards show some magical activity occurred late last night, and although the spell seems not to have targeted this room, it is always better to be careful- his new wards are not perfect, after all.

The location of the spell becomes obvious as soon as he opens his bedroom door. Plastic cups full of water stretch the breadth of the corridor and several feet either side of Peter's door- far too far for him to merely step over. A sharply curtailed attempt to move a few reveals that the cups are stapled together, and cannot be shifted without spilling a considerable amount of water.

Attempts to levitate the array or freeze the water meet with little success- Peter's magic is still far too weak for brute force to work, and persuading the entire thing to either move or freeze as one is an almost impossible task- like trying to direct every individual bee in a swarm.

He rocks back on his heels, chewing his lower lip, unwilling to admit defeat.*

therealpm: (headscratch)
*A combination of sunlight and the sound of snores more akin to a donkey being sawn in half than anything that should emanate from a human throat drag Peter up from the depths of sleep and deposit him, dazed and confused, in a somewhat tangled mess of blankets and more limbs than he remembered having last night.  He struggles to sit upwards, blinking back the fog clouding his brain and reaches for the mug of water he always keeps on the desk beside his bed. 

The wall of bottles and wineglasses in his way gives him some clue as to the source of the acrid taste on his tongue.  He swirls the water round his mouth to clear it, then considers the noisy lump at the end of his bed more carefully.  On closer inspection, it is clear that the errant limbs belong to the lump- Peter hasn't turned into a were-spider or something similar in the middle of the night and sprouted extra, which is a relief- his clothing bills are high enough already.

On even closer inspection, including a 'gentle' prod with one foot, the lump turns out to be a somewhat bleary and hungover Speaker of the House of Commons.


That would go some way towards explaining the provenance of the bottles, the contents of which could probably have been used as a downpayment for a family home.  In London.

He prods the lump again and receives only a muffled grumble in response.*
therealpm: (Confused)
Peter wakes up with a shiver and a groan.  The air is cold and the rough carpet does nothing to ease the ache in his limbs.  He raises an eyebrow at the darts and rope strewn on the ground.  Whoever brought him here was clearly taking no chances.  He supposes they may have stripped him for same sort of security reasons that apparently lead them to tie him up and drug him, but he is baffled by the mud, grass and... blood stains covering his skin.  What the hel happened last night?

He shivers again, and forces himself to stand up and inspect the cell.  His legs scream pain, as though he'd been running for his life, but he hadn't, had he?  The last thing he recalled was asking Alastair to hang the curtains.


Well.  It wouldn't be the first prank the man had played on him, though it was certainly the most elaborate and he had to give the ginger tribble an A* for effort.  Clearly he had far too much spare time in retirement if this was how he chose to spend it.

A brief exploration with his magic confirmed that he was warded as well as locked in.  The Alastair prank explanation was beginning to look distinctly flimsy.  A look out of the window confirmed it: parliament square.  Creative and persuasive as Alastair was, there was no way Black Rod would allow him to use part of the Westminster palace for a prank.  John, Frances, Betty, or any of the other magi who'd gained seniority through speakership throughout the years, then. 

Peter mentaly enumerated all the times he'd annoyed each of the likely candidates.  If this was Betty then this most likely was a prank, and after being laughed at thoroughly, he'd be given breakfast, some trousers and allowed to leave.  If it were Frances or John... well... Peter just hoped that neither had discovered his little trick of miniturising The Machine's components.  He didn't fancy being detained at their Speakerships' pleasure- getting out of it generally involved a lot of grovelling (from what he'd heard, anyway) and the thought really didn't appeal.  He reflected gloomily that the intruder the night before, cloaked from scrying, should probably have tipped him off to being 'wanted' by a particularly powerful sorcerer.

Turning away from the window, he sat knees drawn up to chest in front of the fireplace and set a magical fire burning.  If he was going to be confined here, and/or humiliated, he may as well be warm.
therealpm: (Default)

if you're that enamoured with New Labour, you could just extend an invitation to dinner. Hosting a theatrical production, whilst flattering, is a slightly excessive means of conveying your predilections.

therealpm: (Machine)
*Surveys the meticulously painted runes required for a meso-scale trans-location, sigils that are now useless and beginning to smell due to the wards: newly strengthened by Bercow's return.*

*attempts to cast a cleaning charm*

*after sheltering from the haphazard whirlwind of soap-suds and bleach, decides to try cleaning it up manually*

Machine, I require tea.

...and also some sort of cleaning implement


*rearranges the runes in one corner to form a slightly smaller summoning circle*

*steps back and mouths a few words until what appears to be a very trim racing broom appears*

*smirks and begins to clean up the mess*
therealpm: (Pleased)
Machine, we have a visitor!
therealpm: (Pleased)
Machine, whilst your use of crowd sourcing to fulfil a directive is innovative, I suspect a simple monitoring hex might be more efficient.
therealpm: (annoyed)
John has not ceased wailing 'Nooooooooooooooo!' since Thursday evening.

It is somewhat... irritating.


Jun. 15th, 2011 10:01 pm
therealpm: (Cup)
Bilderberg is usually interesting, and 2011 certainly did not disappoint. Apart from the occasional slip-up, it all ran wonderfully smoothly. A few familiar faces, some more receptive to our policies than others. A pity, then, that Miliband junior and Bercow minor seem unable to behave in a reasonable manner during my absence...
therealpm: (Default)
repairing and upgrading Machine today. Expect minor perturbations in the background thaumic field. Oliver may visit after 5pm if he wishes.


PS: You're still buying your own damned broom.
therealpm: (Cup)
"The situation becomes curiouser and curiouser. As you know, Madam Deputy Speaker, I am a kindly chap and always charitable towards Ministers; far be it from me ever to cast aspersions on the competence—still less on the mindset—of Ministers. However, in the circumstances that my hon. Friend has just pithily described, is he not concerned 'hat the Minister is becoming almost as unfocused as tile right hon. Member for Hartlepool (Mr. Mandelson)?" HC Deb 14 February 2001 vol 363 cc342-56

"Finally, the right hon. Lady is a highly experienced parliamentarian: will she concede that the regulations were introduced, without prior parliamentary scrutiny, under the auspices of the lost and not lamented right hon. Member for Hartlepool (Mr. Mandelson)? He gave minimum notice but caused maximum hassle for business." HC Deb 11 February 1999 vol 325 cc470-83

"If the Government want to honour their pre-election commitment, they should be prepared to accept the new clause as it would remove burdens otherwise imposed on small companies. I am particularly sorry that the right hon. Member for Hartlepool (Mr. Mandelson) has wafted out of the Chamber. I thought that he might be good enough to stay for the exchanges on new clause 1, because, as he does on other matters, the right hon. Gentleman has form on this subject. Under the protection of parliamentary privilege, I can even go so far as to say without fear of a writ for defamation that the right hon. Gentleman has previous convictions on the subject of regulation.


I shall confine myself, Mr. Deputy Speaker, to the hope that the right hon. Member for Hartlepool will prove to be a sinner who repenteth, and that he will join us in the Division Lobby. He need be in no fear of being traduced or attacked if he does so. If it would be helpful for him, I shall, on this one occasion, make the very dangerous commitment to hold his hand as we walk through the Lobby in support of new clause 1, at the risk of considerable damage to my own reputation. I should be happy to do that for the benefit of having the right hon. Gentleman on side." HC Deb 30 March 1999 vol 328 cc882-920

The record for the number of references to my good self made by an individual politician is currently jointly held by Mr Norman Baker and Mr John Bercow.  Is there anything you'd care to say, John?
therealpm: (Default)
Message to: Machine


whilst (now hh:mm:ss) <= 22/03/11 17:23:00)
   if (hh%/%2 == 1)
    { Bercow<-hangover(Bercow, ear.worm="Things Can Only Get Better", nausea=FALSE)}
    {Bercow<-hangover(Bercow, ear.worm="I've Got A Little List", nausea=TRUE)}
therealpm: (Default)
The boy is doing well, certainly better than is helpful given the current situation. Our long term strategy is reasonably secure, but a short term boost to keep us in the public's good books would not be unwelcome.

...and of course, a scattershot approach to divert media attention elsewhere can be very effective.


Mar. 15th, 2011 01:50 pm
therealpm: (Default)
Progress on The Machine: Improved psuedo-synapsial cables and a workbench for grinding out the bespoke quartz lenses required for sub-cellular resolution on the omniview have arrived. 

John, no word as yet on the construction of the green tea sub-unit, so you retain a position of at least some importance to Her Majesty's Government.
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