She had been told that the Political Committee's soirees attracted standing room audiences of over 80. With that in mind she managed to smuggle her way in early to avoid the rush.In dribs and drabs, a lacklustre group of local government 'anorak' members started to shuffle in. But where was the crush of eager members? Just eight had turned up-not the normal eighty/ninety.
Looking down into Pall Mall from her eyrie on the curtain rail the Dame saw the Leader's Bentley behemoth RBKC 1 rolling to a halt in front of the portico'd club entrance.The ever faithful chauffeur Spalding, rushed to ease the Dear Leader out from the rear.
But where were the press of eager members keen to hear about making money in local Government (don't you mean saving money in local government? Ed). Tears welled up in Dear Leaders eyes: the triumphal moment he had been waiting for was just a damp squib. There was no sign of his old friends Mr Pickles or Mr Shapps in the audience. None of the high and mighty of the Party he had worked so hard for had bothered to come along and listen to his witty and well crafted speech: a speech that he had spent days crafting and honing .
Was it all worthwhile he thought and then remembered the chunky £70k allowance,the fine hotels, first class travel and all the other trappings of power he so relished-that did make it all worthwhile.