When bag carriers start believing the bullshit

It is in some ways a good thing that the spate of BBC dramas depicting swivel-eyed, evil bag-carriers goading their MPs onto ever increasing acts of treachery against the supine and desperate electorate has created the (entirely erroneous) impression that we have some sort of control over our bosses. Or, at the very least, they listen to what we say.

This, of course, is absolute nonsense.

An MPs relationship with his staff can be likened to a speeding car with the MP at the wheel. In the back are the staff with the road-map, desperately yelling instructions at the driver which he completely ignores. Sometimes, having disregarded a screamed instruction to take a right turn they veer off to the left only to find that the bridge is out! It's too late to stop, and the MP grits his teeth and presses his foot to the accelerator whilst the staff cower in the back. Will they all land safely on the other side (in the best traditions of the A Team) or go down with all hands (in the best traditions of the Labour Party)?

Visitors to the Parliamentary estate tend not to see any of this; they merely regard the latte sipping, Burton suited young men with admiration and think, "there's a man with his finger on the pulse!" For this reason, researchers are occasionally invited along to receptions on the understanding that we are people with influence. At these events we hoover up as many canapes and drink as much free booze as possible before we are rumbled.

Shhhhhh!

Some bag-carriers, and you can usually spot them, actually believe the bullshit. They strut around Portcullis House mouthing "love ya!" and "let's do lunch" at bemused special advisors of whom they hope (one glorious, glorious day!) will remember their name. They are on the up.

Obviously, the seat of Parliamentary democracy being too small a building to contain their huge egos...er....talents, sorry, they eventually move to the cut-throat world of the private sector, and spend their days phoning up their former colleagues (like the Hamers, whom they wouldn't have previously pissed on if we had been on fire) asking if our bosses want to attend a Thursday night briefing hosted by the Deodorant Manufacturing League.

Truly, this is what we all dreamed of when we signed up to the Labour Party at sixteen.

Truly.