Going

It is time to end this.

In its present form in its current manifestation. Mitchellsfotosucks is no more. It ends here.

It is the 50th issue. It has afforded its creator no little amusement. One hopes the reader is at very least still there.

The first piece, and the name derived from the attempt to move Walmley Cricket Club amid – it seems a very long time ago. Gordon was in his pomp then, we had visions of a modest victory in a snap election banishing Cameron to a footnote in the history of the noughties.

If only.

Its not so brilliant now. Although Mitchell continues to flatter to deceive. Continues to flatter anyway. Gordon is undeniably limping and the economy is stampeding south. Certainly not a lot to celebrate.

Yet….

Dr Pocock is unfazed. We are marching into the autumn ready to assault the senses of the good burghers of the fair town with our views on Town Centre Renovation, not to mention Parking, Rubbish and Railways. ~Before we get to dangerours road junctions.

And Birmingham council excelled themselves featuring the green credentials of Birmingham Alabama. Six hundred thousand times.

So there is hope.

But any small victories here are going to require a measure of application. Perhaps fripperies such as regular blogs are not to be compared with pounding sodden streets or hitting the keys to reveal our sorely tried supporters currently in hiding somewhere in Sutton.

So, for the present. Its goodbye.

But.

Be very afraid. And stay tuned.

There may in time be a resurrection.

.


Nightwatchman

Believe it or not

One’s thoughts, rather reluctantly begin to turn to what the Tories might get up to should they get into government.

And coincidentally, local MP might possess key to unlock the secret.

He appeared in three local stories this week in the Sutton News. Regular readers will understand that Sutton News is by no means a regular critic of local MP but hey! They need the copy and he needs to be seen there.

So the three stories, if I may were….MP joins with local citizens in protesting about a private company called the Post Office closing five local post offices (Photo Op). MP meets local representative for Cool2Care and commends the service they offer (Photo Op). MP meets the functionary at the Minworth Sewage Works and discusses the smell. (Photo Op)

All, you might say, all in a local MPs day. (It probably was.)

So let’s take the first one. Post Offices used to be a nationalised industry. They had responsibility for a service to every home in Britain, they ran the shops and they employed the postmen.

The Tory Party privatised this institution, sold it through the City of London, made a few bob and now have the colossal gall to criticise the government for not helping out this private company to enable it to keep some shops open.

There is no evidence of any embarrassment on the photo.

Cool2Care is an extremely interesting organisation. It does focus on the huge gap in government funding for disabled young people. Cool2Care is a ‘for-profit matchmaker agency that links families of disabled kids with affordable care workers.’
So we shall observe Cool2Care from a short distance. This is an interesting innovation – the marriage of need and profit need not be wrong or disastrous but local MP was not for getting into these waters. Trite phrase, shake of the hand and on to the next.

Which was the smell. Classic arms length non involvement this one. Actually not much he could do. But photo shot not doing much very noisily is a lot better than no photo shot at all. And that’s what we got. Smell may or may not go away. MP will, for a while.

So – does this add up to an exciting promo for slick new government of all the privately educated, by the privately educated, for the privately educated.

'(What about the rest of us?)'

'Don’t you mean rest of you?'

It adds up to a clever shimmy from arch privatiser running with the hare to concerned Tribune of the People chasing with the hounds.

It adds up to a ringing endorsement of a business punt on a very neglected section of the public.

And it adds up to a smelly investigation down Minworth way.


They never change their spots.


Nightwatchman

On Beeing Reasonable

It’s no fun really.

Being a back bench MP,

Not much better being a Shadow Minister.

You spend the best years of your life waiting for something to turn up. That something being ‘Power’. In order to get ‘Power’ it becomes necessary to craft your life around a mythical entity which endlessly plays out a sort of fantasy around a gut theme of glory postponed.

Your default personality becomes at once enslaved to a grotesque caricature of a charming. sensible, feet on the ground sort of everyguy who is approachable but who gets things done. Who is there, even when he’s not, who is a doughty defender of the deserving constituents.

It is a fact of political life that the constituent always deserves better. One isn’t sure whether this is because of being a constituent per se or whether there is somewhere in the bowels of Westminster a very large moral balance sheet where deservedness is measured to be recorded and later rewarded.

If those records went missing on a computer stick or a bunch of discs, the moral compass of the nation could be thrown into doubt. Never mind identity theft, this could be really disastrous.

The MPs lot was neatly demonstrated through the pages of the Observer this weekend.

MP was invited to a Beekeeper’s Bash. It might have been the birthday of the association or a changing of the Guard at Sutton Beekeepers HQ or the QueenBee awards for 2007, No matter. He was there. And photo was taken. And quote provided.

There is, actually, a current problem with the Bees. They keep dying and the Beekeepers wish they wouldn’t. And it might well affect the planet though it probably won’t. It wasn’t absolutely clear why the MP for Sutton Coldfield was thought to be the man who could sort this out. His record of previous involvement in matters Bee is not unknown but certainly not vigorous.

Nevertheless, natural alliance emerges between distraught Society of Keepers of Bees and Approachable Shadow Minister. Society gets a piece in the paper, MP is seen to be Concerned. Statement is released saying ‘Government must do something’. Watch the Birdie, bish bash bosh. Next one please.

Which is a reasonable enough way to earn a living, I suppose. Beats work.

Except the ingrained culture of jumping through hoops like this surely get in the way of legislators paid handsomely to take society forward.

And while this Blog is not against the humble Bee (sic), this weekly pantomime of pretence and posturing and preening is at very least undignified.

And by threatening or diminishing the reputation of the elected MP, it surely demeans us the constituents.

We deserve better.


Nightwatchman

Where?

The delicious bit this week is the Birmingham Council.

Shining beacon of Tory admin skills. And the Lib Dems implicated too.

So sending out 720,000 leaflets about recycling has to be up there with the Chinese decision just to help the Games spectacle along with a couple of bits of judicious graphics.

We apparently didn’t have anybody to put their metaphorical foot on the ball and say:

“But these are going to have to be recycled”

This is because the corporate world and those who ape its conventions, are far too busy getting things done to figure out why they should be done, or when they might be done, or indeed if there is any point in them at all.

So ……..the apparatchiks are given task by well meaning Elected Councillors. There is probably a political point in here somewhere. David C, it is well known, is a Green in disguise. Very heavy disguise which isn’t very green. Star- struck petty foggers have light bulb go off in head. Recycling seen to be a very good thing.

Teams will have been set up. There will have been Powerpoint presentations lovingly created after hours then to be emailed to a large number of more important people, themselves convinced of the urgent need to gee up recycling in advance of even the Government catching on and demanding action. Phrases such as ‘Yes’ and ‘Please advise progress’ and ‘You will keep me in touch with this’ will have littered the Council Email system.

This will have given rise to a universal feeling of satisfaction. Well-being will have seeped under the massive doors of said Council House, past the security guards and down the steps past the Floozy.

Birmingham will at last be in front. Olympic analogies will have seen the blessed city ‘breasting the tape’ or ‘blasting down the home straight’, or even ‘pedaling to glory’. This is a heady brew indeed to inspire the hoi polloi.

And David C.

Not to mention the real people.

And then. Ah! And then.

There was a bit of a snafu.


Goodness knows how it happened. There are dark rumours that the final paper went off to Asia Minor on an outsource.


And they got the wrong photograph.


All that work, all that money, all those leaflets turned up with striking photo of Birmingham on the front.

Birmingham, Alabama.

So the next time the Birdie Mitchell does his tired riff about ‘incompetent government’, and ‘time for change’, and ‘couldn’t run a whelk stall’.

Remember Alabama and smile


Nightwatchman

Reasons to be cheerful

1 Mitchell is in Rwanda

2 They think Brown is in Southwold

3 There’s nobody in Birmingham

4 Everybody is on the M5.

5 Moving very slowly

6 Howard has taken over Mitchell’s modelling duties

7 Schoolchildren have been turned out of school to demonstrate their increased sense of community responsibility

8 Local graffiti shows noticeable Improvements in Gramer and Speling.

9 House prices are descending less quickly.

10 Stephen Byers has turned down the offer to become Milliband’s Chancellor.

11 Stephen Byers has turned down the offer to become Milliband’s Foreign Secretary.

12 Stephen Byers has announced he will not be challenging for Prime Minister.

13 Rob Pocock denies as speculative the story that thirty thousand Wheelie Bins are concealed in the same Council Warehouse as the Boldmere street furniture.

14 Birmingham Council have ordered local farmer to lift the Sutton Park cattle droppings in bio degradable plastic bags or face the consequences.

15 Rain is forecast to be less heavy during the latter part of August.

16 Sutton school denies refusing to pose with cardboard cut out of local MP.

17 Sutton Observer expressed delight at achieving the Guinness Book of Records award for publishing 2317 photos of local MP within twelve months. A spokesman said they were grateful for Mr Mitchell’s extraordinary popularity with their readers.

18 And it saved them having to write so much.

19 Walmley Cricket Club stated that the the erection of a multi-storey luxurious block of apartments at deep fine leg would have a minimal effect on the continuation of the national sport within the village.

20 Councillor Parkin is convinced the decision to move the polling station for Reddicap Heath residents would radically improve voter turn out. Mere Green Primary had always been the obvious choice. He thanked council officials for their determination to find the right solution.

21 Rob Pocock was unwilling to comment on the rumour that Labour would be bringing in a new candidate to fight the Four Oaks Ward at the next election.

22 Stephen Byers could not be reached before going to press.


Nightwatchman

Luck

There’s a guy called Wilson somewhere in the CLP. And he keeps winning the monthly draw. I’m not often lucky myself - I even performed the draw last month. There are around 50 tiny yellow balls with numbers on. Six of them are drawn every month – one big prize and five consolations. I was convinced they had lost my ball but it was there. And last month as a further demonstration of ‘bona fides’ I was asked to do the deed. Didn’t do any good. Mr Wilson came out of the bag again.

It’s dispiriting for a political party to be brought up against the vicissitudes of simple fortune. The world, for us pols, is capable of being sorted out. The bad guys are supposed to get theirs, the good guys should inherit the power to meet out justice and fairness all round the shop. That’s the point.

So we ought, in our hearts, to find it within ourselves to sympathise with poor old Gordon. He wanted to be Prime Minister from the age of fourteen. Clever man, prodigiously hard working, honest as the day is long, possessed of a mighty brain, articulate, well educated, comes from a good family. Maybe even a Good Family. He was a fundamental part of New Labour yet could credibly claim an Old Labour following as well. Waited patiently for his moment. Well, waited impatiently for his moment. Well, I supposed he simmered furiously for his moment while Tony ran the show.

His moment came.

And then his luck turned.

Some of this was self induced. Absolutely no doubt that mistakes were made. Gordon was unwise in places it would have been better not to have been unwise in.

But the real difference was fortune, or the lack of it. I am drifting unhappily to the conclusion that there are indeed ‘more things in heavan and earth….’ And possibly Hamlet was a bit misunderstood. Politicians, some politicians, are lucky. The list does not include Jim Callaghan, Edward Heath, Hugh Gaitskell, John Major and now….Gordon Brown.

It does include the dreadful Margaret Thatcher who, at the very nadir of her popularity, took us halfway across the world to fight for a barren lump of rock known as the Falklands. She won.

I’m afraid it does include Tony Blair, who turned his back on Europe at an absolutely pivotal moment in world history and plunged into two wars shoulder to shoulder with the limited Mr Bush. His very long goodbye coincided with the first stirrings of the worst economic depression the world has seen in seventy years.

Yes, politicians can make their own luck. Thatcher did win it in the South Atlantic, yes Tony did build New Labour into a formidable vote winning machine.

But noone could have avoided the credit crunch or the hike in oil prices, or the complications brought by the leap forward in Asia.

Where misfortune bites so painfully is in the treasured legacy. Tony and Margaret served up the shining illusion that little old UK were masters of our own fate. I’m afraid Gordon went along with it too. The electorate are not keen to hear the absolute truth here. But Tony and Margaret trotted off before reality kicked in.

So …. When the Sutton Coldfield EC reaches Treasurer’s Report and Mr Wilson’s yellow ball emerges once again from Johns little green bag, a small comfort might be derived from a mature reflection on our ability to shape the things completely beyond our control.

And make do with the bits we can affect.


Nightwatchman

Highs and Lows

The massed ranks of the CLP flocked to the Council House on Thursday for a rally. Posted as a debate between the wings – Progress versus Compass this was in reality an opportunity for a group caress. A chance to massage the raw edge of the enormous disappointment which is the G Brown administration.

So. We turned up, by all appearances, one of the better represented constituencies in the Region. We sat, quite by accident in the Council Chamber seats allocated to the Tory Party. This didn’t spoil our enjoyment of the evening. Just felt a little bit uncomfortable.

Steve Richards chaired the evening. Steve is a TV guy but we were determined not to hold this against him. He was certainly confident, fluent, articulate, media savvy. The Party is not as enthusiastic abut these skills as it used to be.

And the debate wasn’t bad. One side or the other, fielded Gisela Stuart and Liam Byrne, Minister for Immigration. They were both very good. We endured short apology from Sir Albert when he explained that the microphones weren’t working because the organisers forgot and the electrician had gone home.

Undaunted we flogged on. There was, as you might have imagined, a lot of agreement, it was all very civilised. The bigger names spoke very well, Byrne managed it without notes and took us effortlessly out of the humdrum into the opportunities presented by the emergence of the new economies. Hadn’t struck me but both Liam and Gisela are market people. And here we were in the midst of our travails getting to the very core of the Labour Party role.

Do we need to be players in International Commerce. Or can we insist on a morally secure position doing a lot of good to our own by concentrating on the sharing out function. It was noticeable that the Edgbaston Constituency were not lining up obediently behind Gisela – when we got to questions there were vigorous arguments from a couple of activists taking a contrary line.

Roy took the opportunity to berate the ministers on their insistence on digging their way into further trouble then expressed his blank astonishment that the Government, our government had somehow managed to get a state funeral for Thatcher on to the national agenda. This, of all the contributions seemed neatly to catch the mood of the meeting. There was a last an issue where we could safely unite – applause broke out and the subject offered subsequent safe ground to reach back into the party’s soul. We were at last agreed.

So. Surprisingly upbeat. We were still old campaigners, we were holed in various parts of the vessel, we were no longer as sprightly as once we were, we were/are still hideously white. But hey. Maybe it’s still in our hands. And it’s the summer, and the mistake quotient has to go down when they’re all on the beach.

So bloody cheer up.

I didn’t win the monthly draw on the way home. Conducted this time on the 8.05 to Four Oaks.

And then we lost Glasgow East.


Nightwatchman

Rubbish!

What the local pol needs for than anything else in chutzpah.

The ability to know for certain that you own the keys to the kingdom. To be aware that it is your song that they’ll be singing. Might not be next week but they’ll come round. And there will be no triumphalism. Self deprecation works so much better in the long run.

Having the ideas is a brave act of extreme confidence. Articulating them is of course ten times braver, and requires a degree of skill both in the speechifying but also in the wider realm of getting the message out. Press Releases, letters, leaflets to supporters all need to hang together intellectually, all need punch, all need precision.

But the major test comes a little later.

It’s the defence, stupid.

Strange to relate, all, or even most ideas take time to become accepted. Many of them attract reactions of scorn and ridicule first time around. When the Wright brothers ran their number about flying aeroplanes, it didn’t go down all that well in the Dog and Duck. It was much the same with ol’ John Maynard Keynes when he had the rather clever notion that we should spend out way out of recession. Didn’t seem right at the time.

So when Dr Rob suggested Wheelie Bins to the honest burghers of Sutton Coldfield, he could have been ill prepared for the emotional meltdown that followed.

The letters page of the Sutton News was bowed by an instant whirlwind response. Was it five or was it six letters straight off the bat. They are probably saving a vast number more for next week. We wonder if a Special Supplement has been planned. The Advertising Department were said to be absolutely delighted.

You may be surprised to learn that none, not one of these occasional correspondents shared Dr Rob’s enthusiasm for said Wheelie Bins. In fact WBs were self evidently a major threat to civilisation as we know it. WBs are unsightly, unwieldy, cut out the light, sit obscuring front windows and have a savagely deleterious effect upon the general morality of the community’s youth.

There can be no more catastrophic step envisaged by the old and wise than casting one’s lot with the Wheelie Binners.

It’s not easy, sitting amidst the shot and shell and smoke eviscerated by the flat earthers, to discern why they are so worked up. Any proposal to move civilisation forward, even in Sutton Coldfield, should surely deserve at very least a hearing.

One wonders whether the invention of the Circular Brush for Victorian Chimneys was similarly vilified by the middle classes of the day. This, after all, blighted the prospect and careers of countless tribes of undernourished sooty boys.

So we wish the good Doctor well. His mission to move the Town forward is a testing yoke indeed. His defence, I have no doubt will be stout. I am confident he will wrong foot the Neanderthals with a clever feint toward the third way. (do not rule out the mini wheelie bin). But the underlying message will be uncompromising.

Wheelie Bins are our future.

Do not stand in their way.


Nightwatchman

Read me a Story

When Nightwatchman was younger he used to read to the kids. All sorts of stories, witches, goblins, tales from the sea, fables. Their favourite though, for a long time, was a series written, I think by Roger Hargreaves, called the Mr Men. Fascinating ditties about this peculiar tribe of driven men who regularly made their distinctive mark upon the world.

Imagine my surprise when I discovered that they live. Not only that, but they’ve moved to Sutton. And making their presence felt. It feels like a reunion. Just wait till the kids find out.

The acknowledged leader of this bunch is a portly balding bloke with rather an insecure command of the English language.

He’s called ‘Mr Don’t know What to Do’. He earns two livings. One as a more or less respectable member of the Sutton Coldfield earners and spenders but the other as the head of an extremely busy group who all sail under the same colours.

These guys, and there are a couple of gals as well, spend an enormous amount of time and an enormous amount of our money zipping around town not doing.

It isn’t hard to pick them out. They wear a common expression somewhere between humble concern and querulous puzzlement. Most of the reason for this is that they are time poor. It takes a very long time.

Not to do – which they don’t

But to explain in mind numbing detail to everybody why it is they haven’t. Leaving out the principal reason. Which is they don’t know what to do.

Now most of the time this is a minor affliction treated with bland indifference in the Town. There is an affectionate attraction for the slightly impaired, mild enthusiasm of the type endured through the many long seasons of ‘Last of the Summer Wine’. Their presence could reasonably be compared with the British Summer.

Windy, wet and its nobody’s fault.

There is a certain feeling of inclusion to be in on the joke. To feel that – they might be rubbish, but they’re our rubbish. Blues fans will know exactly what I mean.

So it’s very sad to relate that the comfortable world we knew and loved is showing unmistakable signs of stress and strain.

Mr Don’t know What to do has actually suffered a fairly serious accident.

He has fallen down a very deep hole.

Its called Mere Green.

The whole tribe can be seen blundering around in the gloom displaying all the distressing signs of their affliction.

A saviour, you will be glad to know is buckling on his scimitar, his horse is ready, his lance awaits his manly grasp.

His name is Mr Blame Somebody Else for the Time Being.

He won’t get the hole filled in. But hey, he might stop them digging.


Nightwatchman

Surprise!

This is the week that Brassington Avenue finally imploded.

City Lofts was the owner and expected developer of very large block of flats which looked stunning on the mock up but stubbornly remained a fairly unattractive and real hole in the ground.

They have thrown in the towel and placed site in hands of Receiver.

The reaction in Sutton is a profound sigh of relief.

But then a feeling of irritation takes over to be followed in its turn by intense frustration. Heading towards Mr Angry.

My town has been mucked around for years while this bunch of City Guys from far away throw the dice and make their projections all the time stifling the work that needs to be done to take the Town forward.

The Tory response was really vigorous.

Councillor Howard went out on a limb “I hope a sympathetic developer will acquire it.”

Whereas the Poster Boy climbed on the high wire and threw caution to the winds…”Future developments should…….not stick out like a sore thumb.”

It’s contributions such as these from the deep intellectual well of modern free thinking which keep the Conservative Flag flying in the Town.

And I thought we were going to sit around and let it rot. Like we have for the last four years.

Dr Rob, I know has been fretting about identifying the line, the political difference between the parties.

Here it is. Its in Black and White and Pictures.

The Tory approach to the shambles is to trust the market. And if a sympathetic developer does not appear, we’ll do the best with what we get.

Dr Rob entertains no illusions that this is solvable overnight. But his starting point is the power and the preference of the community. And if the community vest their trust and confidence in elected Councillors, he expects them to employ any and all levers available to bring about an acceptable result.

So his instinct would not lead him to issue anodyne statements prior to serious hand wringing from the Directors Box a tidy distance from the field of play.

His instinct is to rub on the liniment, grab hold of the mascot and get on the pitch.

We need to fill that hole and we need to coordinate our ambitions for Sutton Coldfield.

That said, we need to take charge. And if deals and trades and understandings and regional cooperation are what it takes to rescue the Town Centre, Dr Rob’s water tells him that the elected guy needs to get used to it, to get started and to get real.

I hope its a game of two halves.

We are six nil down. We are not going to get to extra time by hoping.

Or by playing safe. Or sucking a sore thumb.

The kop is about to give tongue.

“You don’t know what you’re doing”


Nightwatchman

Keeping the Faith

Corine came up with the idea.

As Secretary she regularly fields telephone calls from Hattie – Harriett Harman. Well it’s not exactly HH, but it is her people. And they connect (I think that’s the word) and they profess to be totally focussed on what the Sutton Coldfield CLP think about things.

Corine is not normally stuck for a comment or two but you have to have some sympathy for the difficulties of responding on the hoof to apparatchik charged with mining the soul of the SCCLP.

There had been a couple of such calls and we got organised. Henceforth we, or Corine would be ready. There would henceforth be a crib. When the call came, when HH next dialled up, Corine would casually reach for the text and would appraise the listener on what we think and where our sympathies lie.

How to prepare?

This is the good bit. We would actually debate issues of interest to us. This is new – feelings would be expressed, arguments would be assembled, we would have reactions and a reply. This is how the Greeks did it.

And first debate took place this week. First item on the Agenda. And it lasted 55 mintes. And everybody got stuck in. We had opinions right round the table all the way from Jockey Road to Mere Green.

The consensus was that Faith Schools were a fairly awful idea which was sucking the state into all sorts of inappropriate relationships - the very young were being manipulated, a couple of cynical pressure groups with friends in high places and bishops in the high house are conspiring to maintain their iron grip upon the resources of the state which they direct towards the believers.

The worst bit is putting together an exit strategy. Like it or not (the CLP didn’t) there are an uncomfortable number of complacent middle class parents who see faith schools as their passport to their piece of the pie. And given that the churches do own the buildings, there would be little chance of civilised debate bringing about a sensible conclusion. Make no mistake, they would fight. We would need every ounce of our conviction to prevail.

So Hattie would be told.

Corrine was given no instruction on whether she should mention the Oratory; this was not intended to be an exercise in embarrassing the Minister. Were the cap to fit……..

Nightwatchman

Treading Water

It was the Constituency Meeting this week

Big night for the Tories. They had trailed the progress on the Swimming Baths as the subject for the night. We had two swimming clubs, various vaguely interested youngsters from John Willmott, couple of guys with no dog.

Oh!, and Dr Pocock.

And when the subject of the baths came up, we bowled into full water frolics mode.

The Redoubtable Howard had his guys splash through costs and benefits. The Constituency were blown away by the revelation that Hard Working Councillors had persuaded Birmingham to cough up £3.4m quid to invest in our (dry) baths.

This, on the face of it, was good news. This is not a wonderful time for anybody. Credit crunch has come to the West Midlands, purses have been tightened, belts have been tightened, getting the dosh was a triumph – a testament to the persuasive powers, the strategic negotiating skills of the twelve.

So here we were. Money flooding into Clifton Road, grateful citizens shouting ‘Huzza!’ and ‘Thanks for the Money’ and ‘Howard is a High Diver’.

Life seemed very sweet,

Somebody said was it alright if they asked a question

The question was welcomed with open arms.

‘Please, ask. What do you want to know? Do you want to know how long it would be before we can get our trunks on.’

‘No!’

‘What then?’.

‘What difference will it make?’

‘Pardon?’

‘What difference will it make? How will things be different?’

The High Diver took a deep breath. ‘You won’t notice.’

‘Sorry’

‘The improvements are structural. We opened it up, did what we had to, then put everything back. It’s a huge improvement,’

And the two swimming clubs, and the kids from John Willmott and the two guys without a dog. Nodded sagely and went home.

And so did Dr Pocock.

They all had but one word for the performance.

Wet.



Nightwatchman

On the Street

What jumps out and hollers about the Sutton Coldfield Councillors is the dissonance. Dissonance between grandiose and slapstick. Howard occasionally manages to span this in one sentence.

We watch the grandstanding carefully, particularly on the larger scale projects like the Town Centre. We monitor the puffed up self importance and we try to peer through the murk to get to the actual proposals underneath.

We would dearly love to find some signs of ambition in there. We ache for a spark, or may be even a slightly glowing ember with a charred label saying ‘I’d like to make things a lot better’.

Our expectations are often dashed.

And then. Out of a clear blue sky. Howard announces his intent to spend an eighth of a million Bradburys on ‘enhancing the vibrancy of communities’.

Enhancing whaaat?

And he wants your views.

But he doesn’t want your views on the £125k. He wants your views on 8% of that.

He wants to know how you wish to spend on ‘Street Furniture and general improvements’.

But the balance, £115,000 is committed.

He has already bunged Mere Green Library £25,000 for Sunday opening and £15,000 has gone on ‘Additional Clean and Green Initiatives’.

Councillor Howard is unembarrassed.

“This is a real opportunity for local people to have a say”.

It is Howard’s Raison d’Etre. He gets to give out the sweeties.

But please confine your imaginations to the sum of £10k.

And think Street Furniture.

Nightwatchman

Getting things done

Judy was not a happy bunny.

It has to be said that an unhappy Judy is best avoided, or at very least humoured.

Judy is widely credited with putting the Green in Wylde Green.

She is not, as Mrs Thatcher once put it ‘One of us.’ She is not anything in our terms. Sort of independent – ah, well, no accounting for taste. She is, however, an enormously good egg.

Possessed of an extraordinary energy and no little organising skill, she threw herself into the Wylde Green forum more or less from the start. Her path crossed with the redoubtable Dr Pocock and a small committee of like minded and public minded citoyen.

They understood from the whistle that a credible representative local action group is possessed of a surprising power as long as they understand the levers and the triggers – which of course is the reason Dr Pocock was put on this planet.

So Wylde Green has seen a succession of what might be described as minor projects all of which have improved the lot of the community. In one sense this is surprisingly easy – all you need in inexhaustible reserves of energy, patience and most of all, determination.

So, you may have noticed that we have elegant planters each side of the main road, we have a subterranean bottle bank at the Lanes, we have somewhere to sit outside Sainsburys we have a more sensible traffic access to and from the Shopping Centre.

But last weekend we had a bench installed. Actually it was not installed, it was moved. New bench had been intended for the front of the HSBC but for various reasons it couldn’t stay there. It had to go up to the pavement outside Emmanuel Church. And there it was duly installed.

To Judy’s chagrin, it stands, right now cheek and jowl with the most dilapidated public bench you have ever seen in your life. Brand spanking new shiny bench and this refugee from the inter war years, possibly repainted in 1953.

Thus the manifestation of crestfallen bunny.

This will be sorted out. Offending chair, you may depend upon it, will be replaced or it will be refurbished.

It will be a little victory. It will not rock the foundations of Whitehall, or the Council House. But it will signal a further step along the road of the ordinary citizen, taking the trouble to take the trouble. And finding a voice, and making a difference.

It is slightly glorious.

But it does lead inevitably to the rather more general question.

What is it that the Councillors do for their stipend?



Nightwatchman

All Change

So much for Crewe and Nantwich.

Good ol’ Gwyneth held the seat comfortably at the last election and now her daughter secures a 17.6% swing to the Tories.

This sends a message in block caps underlined twice. This encapsulates exactly the innermost secrets of winning politically where the way is hardest and the opposition is toughest

It gives the lie to the ‘in your face’, ‘up and at them’ tendencies in the party. The decision to import toffs into the local mix was witless, embarrassing and unsuccessful.

We received a royal thumping. We are holed beneath the waterline. Our efforts at bailing out are not being helped by the guys from the bridge directing their hoses on to our exertions in the scuppers.

Now it’s up to Gordon. Change course he must. Unequivocally, quickly and effectively.

No pressure there, then.

But one area he might like to consider – a small pocket of quality shining through the underperformance which characterised Birmingham.

In the very same month that Ken lost London, that Gwyneth’s legacy did not endure, that the local elections went South at a pace…….the Tories were denied any material improvement in their vote in Sutton Coldfield.

In Vesey ward, the Tory vote went down for the fourth election running.

Clearly, Dr Rob is doing something right. If there was any election in the last ten years when your blue rinse, died in the wool, totally committed, knee jerk, gimme the pen Tory could have been expected to queue up at the ballot box, this was it. We are at the point in the political cycle when expectation is all, no performance will ever outbid the anticipation that change is in the air. They should have been able to milk it.

Their back up was good, their leaflets are quality, the MP sent his snapshot album to every voter in the constituency. Money is not a problem to these people.

We could have expected chartered buses to have been made available for the faithful and the disappointed, the mad and the bad and the sad to climb aboard and administer mass chastisement to a government so far out of touch they can’t find a cell.

And in Vesey ward, the Tory vote went down for the fourth election running.

Gordon must phone Dr Rob. And when Rob talks about community politics, when Rob talks about action, about surveys, about involvement about putting in the hard miles, about inspiring a few activists, about maintaining an honest, uncomplicated relationship with an electorate a million miles from his philosophical preferences, Gordon should reach for a stubby pencil…………

And Gordon,…Leave out the Toffs.




Nightwatchman

Dear Gordon

Thanks very much for the email.

You and your people keep writing to me.

Its quite flattering really. I was unworthy, but perhaps I’m not after all.

And when the cleverest man in the kingdom takes the trouble to sit down and tell me what he’s doing, well it sort of brings a warm glow.

One does, rather guiltily, find oneself wondering however whether it’s an awfully good idea for you to be spending time on the likes of me, rather than, well…doing.

Here, forgive me Gordon, here we have a very very intellectual man. You are known as a triple alpha achiever. A man who considers carefully and rejects a host of ideas beyond the farthest reaches of our imagination before selecting the policies to adopt. We see a trained mind totally comfortable with forensic analysis of what to do, consequences, balance of advantage, assessing shades of grey in every action.

But your image is a blundering obsessive reeling from disaster to catastrophe bullying the electorate with ever more lists of statistics they’ve all heard before.

You’re better than that, Gordon.

Perhaps you should start acting the Prime Minister. The Prime Minister does not ‘fight back’. The Prime Minister does not get into the gutter and slug it out with the hoi polloi. The Prime Minister employs his God given talents to avoid, above all things, being compared unfavourably with lesser beings.

And if he gets distracted or if the dancing matador occasionally scatches a hit, so what? The little people will be always be impressed more by achievement than by bullshit. Count the number of competent governments who have been removed by virtue of any combination of cheap stunts and stand up routines.

Not many. Governments are like fish, they decay from the head down. Governments lose elections. Governments.

So here’s the deal old son. I don’t need to hear from you.

But please, please do something about the policies. There is a fault line running through the core of your stuff which gives succour to your enemies and drives your friends to despair.

New Labour has for ten years, run an essential deceit on taxes and enterprise and welfare and keeping the Daily Mail onside.

The merry prank was funded by benign economic conditions and a light rein on the City of London. And it worked.

Its over now. We now need a more steely resolve to see us through. We need ‘fair’, we need ‘seen to be fair’, we need complete confidence in your ability to unite the people to get through this.

So forget ambitious legislative programme, forget apologetic chats round TV studios.

Think fair, think how bad 42 days without charge looks, think about BA corruption.

Act the Prime Minister.

Properly.

The rest will take care of itself.


Kind Regards


Nightwatchman

Happy Birthday

Our MP, rich and successful Merchant Banker, Andrew Mitchell was in town last week.

He took time out from a busy schedule to congratulate a resident who has reached the age of 108 and he issued a statement on the Burmese emergency.

I suppose we can forgive him for dropping in on the 108 year old. It didn’t harm anybody and it is a good age. Mrs Barker had lived through around 50 years of various disastrous Tory governments so she was entitled to a visit from Merchant Banker, even if he did bring his photographer with him.

The statement on Burma was much more significant.

We are at the stage in the life cycle of the current government where the general election starts to loom. There are reasonable odds to be had that the date will be next year. Less, perhaps than twelve months to make up our minds.

So the Shadow Secreary of State for Overseas Development could be expected to give us a glimpse of an imaginative approach to the utter shambles which faces South East Asia.

What we got was another dollop from the Constituency Phrase Book. This serves to say very little about Walmley Cricket Club, it congratulates the lady in the Orchard House Nursing Home and now it is pressed into service to sum up the post- typhoon tribulations.

Merchant Banker at his most authoritative:

Get a needs assessement from the UN
Get a generous world response to a UN appeal
Get Burmese Government to give access to the relief effort.

Oh!, and the final earth shattering statement – “Trying to go against the grain doesn’t work.”

We pay him to make this up!.

Is there no smidgeon of his well padded being which is tempted to thread a way through the meaningless platitudes and address the heart of the issue?

Which is that the Burmese Government is not going to cooperate and hundreds of thousands of people will die unless the West finds a way to force the issue.

Alas Forcing Issues is not Merchant Bankers Bag.

He’s very good at the other stuff.


Nightwatchman

What did you expect?

Class has been a pernicious instrument of conflict for a very large number of years. Its influence touches us all from the old Chester Road terminus all the way through to the station at Blake Street and beyond.

I don’t think we can blame the Tories for class differences but they are, shall we say less energised by the prospect of seeing it off. Or orf.

We were treated, at the count to a graphic illustration of the survival of the baser instincts.

The Tories had an ok night. Not glorious, by any means in the context of the national tide which was flowing but all their candidates got in and they seemed pleased.

The traditional victory speech was handled by Councillor Howard. He is an unattractive little man and he gave us an unattractive little speech. He did thankfully express his gratitude to the Returning Officer but then chose to make triumphalist remarks about Mr Pocock and his capacity for destroying the vote.

People as naturally pompous as councillors understand the conventions of titles and they understand the conventions of post election remarks. Enjoying a completely expected victory too much is regarded as ‘bad form’ and neglecting to observe an academic’s hard won title is likewise - shall we say ‘outre’.

Liberal Democrat lady was next up and gave us the traditional Lib Dem line on not wishing to make a political speech. Fair enough.

It was Rob’s turn.

And he was so good. He is a cartoonists dream is Rob. Tall man, strong featured and always but always good humoured. Absolutely and totally unputdownable.

He breezed through the formalities, then turned his attention on the Tories. He chose to mark the event by generously and courteously paying tribute to the long serving .retiring Tory Councillor for Vesey Ward, David Roy.

David Roy has not been our favourite politician. We have, in fact been in conflict with David Roy over large number of issues over a large number of years. But, he has served the town and the city over a prolonged period of office. Not to refer to his service at the first count which did not feature his name was a crass error and Rob rectified it.

Beautifully.

It was deft, it was charming. It was devastating. Alan Shearer would have put it differently……

It was different class.



Nightwatchman

Don’t know where

John’s aural facilities are not what they were.

To use the phrase “as deaf as a post” as applied to John is a tendentious slur on the hearing ability of the post.

He wears his affliction lightly, he has never allowed it to impair his 60 years of service to the movement.

It irritates the hell out of Lucy, but that has gone way past the family joke stage – it is now a polished gem of music hall extravaganza sent down to us to lift the spirits when its pissing down outside and we’ve only got as far as Matters Arising. And Ray hasn’t even got here yet.

They, and we, have been together a very long time indeed.

And now.

Its over.

They will be packing up the tent in the next few days and leaving us to continue the struggle alone.

It is right and proper that Nightwatchman make some inadequate attempt to describe the cataclysm which befalls us. A very large hole has appeared in the middle of our floor. And it’s a long way down there. I am tempted to compare it to the day Trevor Francis left the Blues. Grown men were weeping unashamedly into their Mild Ale, season tickets were torn in half, Blues shirts piled up at the Jumble Sales. The Villa were ecstatic.

So it is today. Old men weep silently into their bottles of Sol (happily the slice of lemon keeps the tears out of the beer), unread second hand books pile up in Roys garage; redundant posters curl up at the corners in silent tribute. The Tories are chuffed.

And Suffolk, Suffolk, of all places, will be the unseeing benefactors of this downturn in our fortunes. It is they, whoever they are, who will receive, unknowing, not one, but two Party obsessives. Steeped in the traditions, lives hardened by years of disappointment, then shining with satisfaction and anticipation then back to dismay. But never, never deviating from a joint core belief in the good things.

They are an inspiration, they have by- electioned up and down the land, they have run book sales, they have leafleted Lucy’s knees away, they have collected funds, they have counted funds, and in John’s case they have tended the funds well away from the predatory fingers of the Candidate. The Conference itself marked their wedding anniversary.

We have absolutely no doubt that they will shortly been as indispensable to Suffolk as they are up here ………

But you have to speak up.


Nightwatchman

Woof

Roger turned up at the Meeting with fingers in plaster.

His mood was surprisingly upbeat. Especially considering he had been doing a bit of canvassing. Actually talking to people about how they intended to vote.

Ours is not the most receptive part of the country for the Labour vote, one’s range of expectations runs a short way from outright abuse to truculent disinterest.

This does not phase Roger. Roger is possesses that rare confidence born of bedrock decency fuelled by a certain fluency with the English language and a very strong beilief in liberal principles. And Roger happily engaged in dialogue with innocent voters then went off leafleting

He was bitten. By a dog.

Dog was lurking by the letterbox. Our leaflets are not the quality they were, Roger needed to push the dammed thing through the aperture and through the draft proofing and he was nailed by hound. It actually bit one finger, the other was injured on its way out of the door.

Now Roger, being a sensible man, concentrates on those addresses where we reckon we might at least have some chance of securing a vote. So, not for him the Wyvern Road or the Moor Hall Drive, he does more work in Fowler Road and Falcon Lodge Crescent.

There is a certain irony here.

Our leaders have been pounding away for 11 years now pretending to emabrace the ills of word capitalism while shovelling barrowloads of loot towards poor families – tax credits, fuel allowance et all.

But their tactucs of tiptoeing around the Daily Mail and Rupert Murdoch in particular means that the entire spin underpinning the government is one of making the rich richer.
A case if ‘never mind what they do, listen to what they say’.

Dog, dumb animal that he was, could not be expected to figure out he subtleties of national strategic necessities. The fact that the UK has always been governed by a centre ground broad church was completely lost on the mutt. The explanation, that there are good guys and bad guys and things are not always what they seem, cut little ice in the hallway.

So when Roger goes into the Lodge and proselytes, you might not expect brass band and bunting. But on the other hand, you could be forgiven for anticipating a degree of quiet satisfaction that our people had noted a significant change in the standard of living of the poorest among us, particularly the children.

We forgot about the dogs.


Nightwatchman

Puffing Parky

Parky wants your vote.

Young Master Phil has written to me. His leaflet dropped on to my mat last week.

It, I don’t want to be unkind, was a bit of a disappointment. Parky is not one for the grandiose promises. Actually he’s not one for any promises at all.

But he is very keen on what he does. Essentially, this is sitting on committees. Great sitter is Parky. Got a lot of bottom. And he tries very hard.

I shall take the liberty of quoting from the text…..

“Represent the ward as Councillor since 2004”
“Governor of Maney Hill Primary School”
“Member of the Falcon Lodge Community Centre Advisory Committee”
“Chairmanship of the constituency’s Economic Development Group”
“member of the City Council Regeneration Overview” oh!,”and Scrutiny Committee”

Its no wonder he doesn’t do anything.

He hasn’t got time.

But you can tell his heart is in the right place….. He will “continue to work hard…to ensure we get the high level of service we deserve”

He has “worked hard to help ensure that cycle and pedestrian routes are extended”

He does “my utmost to ensure (sic) that the needs of children and young people are always taken into account”

He will “do all I can to ensure local parks are protected”

He will “keep fighting for the economic prosperity of Trinity Ward”

And, he will also “do all he can to ensure that any development that takes place is for the benefit of all the residents in the ward”

These are the words of a driven man. When he’s not fighting, he’s trying hard so much that he is doing all he can.

Only a complete curmudgeon would dare mention the orgy of flap that has surrounded the Hard Trier’s complete failure to install a traffic light outside the Anvil Pub.

And it would surely take a stony hearted zealot to question Utmost Doer’s blank refusal to spare the Reddicap Residents the long hike to the polling booth.

Nightwatchman hopes Parky sleeps soundly in his bed at night. We note the line about getting the service we deserve.

If this tosh gets our boy elected, we may expect no less.



Nightwatchman

And don’t do it again!

Everybody is redesigning their Town Centre.

Bang the words into Google and you will find pages of Towns all unhappy with what they’ve got now, all employing remarkably similar phrases to punt a new, more attractive, more prosperous future.

There is also, generally, a disinclination to consider how the Town got into a spiral of decline in the first place and how, in the future it proposes successfully to avoid losing their way again.

No one is guaranteed a bright future. Stuff happens. As Macmillan put it “Events, dear boy.” But the tale of woe coming out of Sutton over the past five years indicates a level of discontent at the political level which is quite shocking.

Sutton Councillors are returned year after year for the primary purpose of maintaining the traditional self image of the townsfolk. In this they have lamentably failed. But the genius of the Tories is in inflating those expectations year upon year despite the brutal reality of empty retail units, a huge construction hole in the middle of town and a transport system which strangles the town.

Much as the MP might retreat behind his doleful descriptions of the difficulties of redesign with multiple owners, there is nevertheless a surprising confidence that things will get better.

We shall see.

There is surely, however the renewal turns out, a case for the city fathers devolving a direct personal responsibility for the well being of the Town Centre.

Effectiveness is linked very strongly with selection of priorities. No one in the last five years has made it their business to sustain the future of Sutton Coldfield Town Centre. There is an obvious need for a political understanding that one person should possess the authority to speak for the Town and that person should reinforce his or her stature by carrying out, week in, week out, the necessary ‘ugly’ tasks of consulting, probing, encouraging, suggesting, defining how best the Town might live up to the expectations of its inhabitants.

Any fool can commission a redesign, any fool can go through the motions of public consultation. The clever trick lies in forestalling decay. Sutton is patently not good at reinventing itself. The process should begin with a hard headed appraisal of ‘how we got to be here’ and then take some time to consider ‘how we intend to consolidate our gains’.

This is not a good time for the quick fix.


Nightwatchman

Just place your cross

So where do we go from here?

The local election looms. The Tories are in power. We use the word in its very broadest sense. The Tories are in charge? No, that certainly won’t do... The Tories are……………….in the Council House. That’s better but doesn’t really do justice to the complexity of their relationship with the general public.

The public actually vote. In large numbers in each ward for nominated Tory. Tory accepts votes and allowances, more or less graciously, and beaches up in B1 for several years. The intriguing question is Why?

Their best friends would hesitate to describe Tories as industrious. MP comes up every so often with phrases like ‘hardworking councillors’ or ‘very hardworking councillors’ but everybody understands the code. Rough translation is “these are local erks whom noone in their right mind would entrust with running a whelk stall “. It is necessary however to declaim these sentiments regularly to reinforce the generally accepted tenets of democracy which is that this party is as together as Pete Docherty and exotic substances.”]

Are they influential ? No. They are routinely ignored by public, by MP, by newspapers, and by large numbers of domestic animals routinely fouling the park.

Do they make their presence felt? No. They are reliably rumoured to live in holes in the ground coming out only to buy the Sutton Observer the better to understand from Rob Pocock what public responsibility looks like.

Are they shining examples of incorruptible public servants anxious only to fulfil their democratic mandate…………..’Taxi!’.

But the voting public do not share this view of the world as it is lived in B74.

They do not see erks failing to run whelk stall. They see sturdy bulwark against Socialist hordes lead ably from the front by Rob Pocock.

They do no see indolence, the see sturdy bulwark……..

They do not panic at not seeing the Invisibles – they see sturdy bulwark……..

They do not look for influence, for erudition, for enthusiasm, for imagination, for any ability to get things done. – they see sturdy bulwark ………..

Calling this narrow minded is politically unacceptable – one might go as far as hazarding the adjective ‘curious’. But the result of, shall we say a cyclopean preference for a very long line of Tory candidates is becoming obvious.

The Town is in decline. We have done the short stagger down the mild hump. We are starting to toboggan down the precipice.

It is time to deplane the navigators.

Nightwatchman

Implacable

Andy is implacable.

It’s official. It must be, it says so in the Sutton Observer.

The locals who live round (literally) the Walmley Cricket Club wrote to our boy. They told him how worried they were that the WCC were intent on upping sticks and moving to a more promising location and that the move would be funded by selling the strip.

Andy was predictably horrified. He does get a bit horrified in election season and this time he really put pen to paper in no uncertain terms.

He is, was and ever shall be implacably opposed to building on the site. He explained, helpfully, how in the beginning he had been asked to support Walmley CC in their quest for larger surroundings and he had seen that as helping his constituents in their ambitious quest for new facilities appropriate for the leisure activities of the youth of the borough.

Andy thus forgave himself for the rather unwise photo opportunity with the dignitary from the CC and the extraordinarily helpful gent from the property company who dream up the whizzo scheme to fund the new facility.

We were told at the time that the destiny of the current home of the CC ‘had never been discussed’. So that was alright then.

And now, here we are, six months on. And a determined knot of residents stand defiantly at the front gates of the CC demonstrating their total opposition to any plans which might replace the sward with immoderate quantities of empty apartments.

CC has gone a bit silent. Andy is backing both sides. But is implacable.

What stands out a country mile is not the statements, not the waving of letters, not the strained faces of the worried residents.

It is the palpable absence of the MP.

This man lives for photo opportunities. This man is all over the paper every week. This man posed with Walmley CC in the autumn.

Implacable he might be. Don’t bet on him.


Nightwatchman

Tony

Went to see Tony Benn at the Town Hall.

Tony is an institution – he attracted some fifteen hundred souls to come out on a wet and windy Thursday night.

The set was minimalist. Couple of chairs, one to sit on, one for his coat., a microphone and a lamp. Faded country housey.

He shuffled on to warm applause, took his coat off, sat himself down in his maroon cardy and ……..chatted.

We did the riffs – service in the RAF, mentions of Churchill (very generous to me), Blair, Kinnock, democracy ,(little old ladies in polling booths changing the government) constituency business. He plays the sainted innocent. He coined a few laughs, promised us some questions and tottered off for a half time cup of tea and to sign some books.

The audience went for a drink.

When we came back, it was time for questions. He explains that a minder must come on and sit with him to hear the questions properly and relay the sense to him. This seems to work ok although you get the impression that Tony is going to answer what Tony is going to answer. And to hell with the question. .

And so he bumbles on fairly amusingly telling his tales, schmoozing his people. And we went home promptly at half past nine.

So what was it all about?

It was nostalgic togetherness really. A coming together of the romantic fantasists. They thought he walked on water. He was certainly consistent over a long career; and he was well behaved – you never saw him in the tabloids, never a hint to financial scandal, no sex shenanigans; and he sent his kids to Holland Park Comp.

For all that there was a sadness to the evening. Here was the archetypal man of the people. Doing his party pieces at the age of 83. Bouncy, attractive, indomitable.

But has he not failed?

He will be forever linked with unsuccessful Labour Governments who couldn’t quite convince. He will be forever linked with unlikely causes. The epitome of ‘not quite getting there’. Gloriously.

How many of the people watching are poorer because his flawed vision held them back. Here was a privileged, articulate, sympathetic, truly decent man who refused to shoulder the responsibility to drive necessary improvements in the society who elected him. In a real sense he was an unwitting architect of Thatcherism.

Nobody asked him about that.


Nightwatchman

How did it get to be March?

Giving us approximately six weeks to local elections. A miserly six weeks left to expose the disgraceful performance of our local leaders.

We have, however, a feast of possibilities to woo an uncertain electorate. That much is true. The feast, I mean, not the electorate. Which is always certain. Wildly, depressingly, wrongheadedly, implacably certain.

We could speculate endlessly on the reasons why. One shrinks from the more obvious explanations that they are all as thick as a plank or that there is some as yet undefined virus which sweeps the town every year around the equinox and insists that all living beings get themselves down to the polling station and puts their cross against the blue candidate.

These are normally quite sensible people. A small minority beat their wives, drink too much on a Friday night or put a few sovs on the favourite for the Champion Hurdle. A few of them support the Blues. But by and large, they lead incredibly useful lives working at quite well paid jobs, bringing up respectable families.

And then madness overtakes. We are talking her about honest burgers. Solid stock derived in part from eternal Saxon Values. Work hard, look after the family; do not accept anything less than your due from anyone – civil servant, stroppy motorist, officious traffic warden – the principle of centuries of self reliance hold sway. The Britisher is subject to no man.

May comes round and off they go to the polling station………….

The recipients of the vote are a grey bunch indeed. The Tories of Sutton Coldfield have become a byword in political circles for crafting a perfect record of unblemished success since Noah first took his designs down the dockside. It wasn’t even a dockside in those days, it was up the mountain. The Tories have produced candidate after candidate, winner after winner on an unparalleled record of labouring in vain. I hesitate to call it labouring but it is certainly in vain.

They have produced a mountain of inactivity. There is nothing to show, the ledger is bare. There is not even much on the debit side. They spent a lot on a Town Hall clock and they got off their bottoms and voting us into Birmingham, but that’s about it.

So their success in undoubtedly due to the virus. Epedimius Toryatis. It is essential that we direct all our energies to stamping this out. We don’t have long.

Alternatively, we could treat the more obvious symptom. Rob is already knocking on doors, delivering leaflets, addressing meetings, writing the letters, motivating, inspiring, cajoling.

Howard and his Tories are busy doing absolutely nothing.

………………………….Just a minute!


Nightwatchman

Grrrrrrrrrr-rr

The Good Doctor, Dr Rob. is my hero.

This man, I truly believe, was put upon the earth with one blinding talent. He could upset a Tory at 50 paces. He could reduce experienced denizens, veterans of decades of vicious local politics, to ciphers of gibbering rage with but a few sentences on a variety of subjects any one of which would struggle to retain a normal person’s attention beyond the first comma.

So it has come as a particular delight to be privileged to watch a glorious, current example of the genre being played out live.

And not only that, the Dr has managed to combine two incidents into one issue of the Sutton News, a long term instrument of Tory encouragement.

It gets sweeter.

Rob has been enthusiastically busying himself with the plans to regenerate the Town Centre. The Party have championed the idea that the moribund branch passenger railway line through the Park might be reopened with the intention, of course, of bringing large numbers of high spending ABC1s into the shopping centre. Having forced this upon Liam Byrne, ambitious Minister for the West Midlands, Rob found the party gatecrashed by the unlovely Hazel Blears. Hazel is not everybody’s favourite but she is big. Well, not big, but she is powerful. We are talking Cabinet Miinister.

And Rob only gets a one to one with HB and then the Press Release talks about securing a measure of true (that means a budget) devolution for the Town. And he invites the Tories, who have been in power since Greater Tusked Mamooths roamed the Park, to join with him in a serious effort to bring real local power to the community.

They want this so badly, they can taste it. They have long regretted their catastrophic flight to Birmingham when Ted Heath thought they might deliver a big city to the Tories.

But, given Rob’s involvement, they are even now entertaining that wonderful ultimate free choice. Nose, or Face?

And then. Let joy be unconfined. Rob and Ken Rushton have wrapped themselves in the Royal Charter – fallen by the wayside since the Borough Council failed properly to register it. The message again is – Join with us, rescue the charger, exploit the positive branding.

It is at this point that crimson stars explode around the Tory beetle brows. To have the Labour Party come within a country mile of the sainted Charter. This is the source of the Royal in ‘Royal Town’, and to have Rob utter the sacred word is itself a heinous misconception which must quickly be corrected. This is tantamount to Trevor Francis managing the Villa or the Blues playing one touch football.

Watch the reaction. This is free, deliciously entertaining. And it will run for weeks.

Be there.


Nightwatchman

Don't do it

There is a time in every red blooded male’s life when the red mist descends, the provocation becomes too much, the devils have to be cast out.

Such a moment is fast approaching for Dr Pocock.

It has become obvious over the past week or so that the Tories are spoiling for a fight. Thay continue to advertise aggressive intent, they paw the ground, they snort through distended nostrils and dare anyone to bar their way.

Most of this, of course, is exaggerated bluster. It is the product of eleven years out of office, and considerably more than that out of power. What is adding to their frustration is that for all their confident demeanour, they are not certain of getting back next time.

So we can understand the heat and the noise.

But we must not be caught cold by any of their tactical wiles.

Nightwatchman has heard that Mr A Mitchell, unsuccessful MP of this parish, intends to challenge Dr Pocock to a public debate at the next election.

Now Mr Mitchell has very rarely been seen debating anywhere at all. And least of all in Sutton Coldfield. Mr Mitchell is a past master at being seen to encourage small boys and girls to debate each other. But he leaves the actual business to others more of a mind to take risks. Dr Pocock’s invitation to cross vocal swords with said Mr Mitchell fell on very stony ground last election. Their man wasn’t up for it.

So, if I were Dr Pocock, I would be extremely chary of challenges being issued by pretty girls in the name of our photogenic MP. This is obviously a ploy created deep within the bowels of the David Cameron joke machine. He has thrown down the gauntlet to an unimpressed Gordon Brown and it makes perfect sense for each of the Shadow Cabinet to employ the same tactic. If they want to stay in a job.

When the invitation plops on Dr Pocock’s mat, he must think long and hard about his reply. It would be easy indeed to leap enthusiastically into the lists laying about him with all the erudition he employs. But there is a down side.

Dr Pocock really must not be suckered into a meaningless contest. This is a Cabinet also ran looking to dwell for a short while in the warm popular sunshine which ever seems to envelope the good Doctor. It is common knowledge on the Parade that Mr Mitchell’s primary skill is having his picture taken and indulging in meaningless absurdities to all manner of local organisations willing to pose. That and acting as umpire between Walmley residents and the developers of the Cricket Club. Where the residents are given ‘Out’.

There is absolutely nothing in this for Dr Pocock. We can take his picture, we can make his arguments. He must stand firm against the temptations of dissecting the hapless Mr Mitchell and his pathetic policies (should any emerge).

There are more important fish to fry.

Nightwatchman

Busy doing nothing

Nightwatchman has seen it.

The draft manifesto of the local Tories for the May local elections.

Its that time again. Councillors spend most of the year hard working on your behalf. But for a month or so in the Spring they devote themselves to writing the inspiring words capable of delivering the floating vote yet again.

And this year they have outdone themselves. The restless ferment of intellectual energy at the beating heart of Trinity Conservatives – we are talking the Parkin Waddington axis here – has poked and prodded and finally produced the words and the idea for 2008.

Its glorious.

The Tories are to play the free enterprise card.

This means getting out of the way This means having the confidence to believe. This means finding within themselves the energy to fight for the cause.

The secret is to do nothing. The magic lies in making this the centre of the campaign.

And the whole thing falls into place.

Brassington Avenue – do nothing. Let them build a fence.

Anchor Crossroads – do nothing. But concede a review.

Mere Green – do nothing. Private enterprise will eventually produce the optimum result.

Town Centre – the biggest coup of all. Move to one side, insert an expensive consultancy; ask the townspeople for their own ideas and wait. Essential to avoid action.

And finally there’s the Swimming Baths. Yet another fence, two in fact. Another triumph of constructive inactivity.

We have to get used to the idea that this is a masterstroke. This threatens to sweep the board.
Except, and this is where things get confusin’

There are normally two things you can guarantee with Tories.

They will underperform.

It will be a triumph.

So did it all go wrong earlier in the year?

They rebuilt the Town Hall Clock.

Nobody wanted it. But it got finished.

What was that about?


Nightwatchman

Suddenly

Peculiar position we find ourselves in.

The Renew Sutton campaign is beginning to emerge. Sutton Councillors are being found out. This relentless non campaign which has lasted now some 60 years is coming home to roost.


There is amongst that august elite a confident belief that the Town belongs to them. Its actually more than that, it’s a steel shafted, mortar bricked in certainty that the toys are their property. For ever.

Well, hey nonny nonny. They don’t. Not any more.

A new animal has arrived on the block. Very large incisors, very large feet. Very large appetite. Its called the Regional Plan.

Now this sounds exceptionally innocent. Bit of a quango, some jobs for the boys, bit of a device to keep Civil Servants in folders. But it’s run by an acquaintance of Dr Pocock who is Liam Byrne.

Liam is a rising star in government of G Brown and Liam is looking after the West Midlands.

It, Sutton Coldfield renewal, is now Liam’s baby.

I really musn’t exaggerate. It’s not really Liam’s baby. But Liam is the godfather. Or, more aptly, The Godfather. Nothing is going to be knocked down or planned, or modernised, or improved without Liam getting a call...............

'Would you mind?'

'Sir.'

So him being Rob's mate, its going to take all the moral fortitude of the entire CLP to
strike an appropriate balance between managing the overwhelming feeling of control and assembling the correct committee properly to negotiate the structure of our new town.

Liam has the money.

We have the time.

Now where did I leave that lump hammer.



Nightwatchman

Fore!

The cognoscenti are abuzz this week with The Boldmere Golf Club 70th anniversary.

These things are traditionally dire.

Hapless high handicapper is saddled with the desperate chore of organising the dammed thing. He assesses likely interest – some way south of electric, imposes charge – nosebleeding, sorts out venue – on the modest side of ordinary, and books the acts.

Act booking is a science all on its own. Selection of the sad, the mad and the driven. And they all cost.

Anyway this event trundled off down the predictable lines. When large numbers of members dredge up the perspicacity to fill their diaries in mortal fear that they might be free, the heavy weight of responsibility falls upon those not so far seeing. And their spouses. Who are thereby invited. Actually they are required to come. Reluctantly. The inevitable trades probably involved shopping, pampering weekends and serious dislocation of Friday night drinking.

And on the night the menu more than lived up to expectations. Soup dinner pudding and don’t argue. Vegetarians to wait till they get home. First speaker was even worse than the 50th anniversary, still a talking point among the less generous older generation.

The comic just got it wrong. I do feel some sympathy for comics. An embattled breed. How on earth do you judge an audience 4 weeks ahead with only a function and an address to go on. I suppose the address didn’t give much away. And it was a Golf Club. But this was not light touch, gossamer nuanced witty badinage. This was more industrial. This was ten pound hammer stuff. One could see the collateral damage on the trading terms for attendance. The deals got reviewed. Spouses were minded to exact due penance.

And then. It got much worse.

Mitchell turned up. Late. Allegedly with photographer. And proceeded to excuse himself on the grounds that Gordon Brown had mucked up the transport industry. David Cameron is not wonderful at humour. But this was horrible. Toes did not uncurl for a very long time.

They watched the Birdie. And then he went home.

Applications for membership of Pype Hayes Golf Club can be obtained from the Hon Sec, Eachelhurst Rd.


Nightwatchman

Got It!

It has fallen into our hands.

The Brief, that is. The Brief through which Sutton Cold field Town Centre is to be revitalised. Is to be transformed into the Solihull of the North East Birmingham.

It is almost a perfect document. It is cogent, well argued, balanced, extremely literate. One can see in an instant that this would be the sort of document which would bring out the presentation skills of the very cream of the aspiring Consultancy Crop.

And it has.

The chosen ones are Broadway Mayan who have forced themselves to the front of the pack and have scooped the £100,000 worth of council business. And good luck to them.

Nightwatchman is in absolutely no doubt that the notions which will emerge from said Broadway Mayan will be worth every penny of the rate payer’s money.

Curious business this. Writing a brief so that the briefed can come back in appropriate terms and specify what it is you were thinking of in the first place. Consultants are a bit like that. They supply the veneer on those half baked ideas which might otherwise get laughed out of court or which are so blindingly obvious that you would be embarrassed to find them coming out of your mouth.

So it is better, and safer and a lot less embarrassing to inflate an enormous bubble around the entire edifice, spent a shed load of money and destroy several medium sized innocent forests producing volumes of justification. How could one possibly entertain the suspicion that the real driver is that no one, especially not Rob Pocock could dream of accusing Councillors of not thinking the thing through.

This is a very expensive method of avoiding the rather tedious chore of leadership. Were Councillor Howard of sterner stuff, he might have ventured his opinion on how Sutton ought to be. He might have placed himself at the head of the column and marched off toward the sound of gunfire and the clash of ideas splintering on the anvil of experience.

He might have been prepared to risk publishing his enthusiasm in search of creating a better town.

Then again, perhaps there is something to be said for Consultants.

Nightwatchman

Its Parking really

One reads of grand passions, one understands obsession, one empathises with the unhinged mind.

But the Sutton Councillors have set the bar to a new and exciting height.

This is a commercial. You have to be there. This is going to be on the the ‘must see’ events in the West Midland calendar.

Councillors meet with their constituents in Trinity Ward every month. A large agenda is published, various officers are required to attend, there are, amazingly, some members of the public present.

And the councillors grapple, in public, with the major questions affecting the voters. We did rubbish collection and we had a gentleman talk us through the brief for the restoration of the Town Centre.

And then. It was Parking.

It was as if someone had switched the light on. I ought to explain that three councillors had attended. On duty were Waddington, Parkin and Pears. The latter two were definitely alive, if somewhat torporous. You couldn’t image them hoppin’ and boppin’. Hoppin’ would certainly have us up before Trades Descriptions. We’ll leave out boppin’. But Mrs Waddington was giving serious cause for concern.

It wasn’t that she didn’t speak, smile, leer, nod or smile. She didn’t move. It came as a very considerable relief when the Chairman asked the Members (the other two!) to approve the minutes. She said ‘Agreed.’ Quietly.

But to get back to Parking – this electrified the other two. They carried large holdalls with petitions and protests and pleas and threats. They threw themselves into passionate denunciations of irresponsible parkers. The unfortunate Traffic Management Officer found himself battered by questions, suggestions and entreaties. Even the constabulary was dragged into the debate. One formed the impression that hanging was too good for the more obvious miscreants.

And this ecstasy lasted all of twenty minutes. And then it stopped. There were bottomless sighs from two thirds of the top table. That was very obviously that for another month.

The Councillors P, deflated, turned their attention regretfully to the crossroads at the Anvil. Whatever the solution, traffic lights, calming measures, stop signs, it was unable to hold a candle to the main business of the meeting. The light had gone out of their eyes. They trudged, metaphorically to the end of the meeting. They woke up Mrs Waddington and off they went.

There’s always next month. You have to be there.

Nightwatchman

How it’s done

Every so often, Nightwatchman is asked- ‘How is it that a prosperous leading Town north east of Birmingham can decline ungracefully into Sutton Coldfield 2008?'

The answer is to be demonstrated in glorious living colour over the next six months. Allegedly.

Regular reader will know that Sutton is about to be subjected to a log awaited redesign of the Town Centre. Councillors are about to appoint a consultant to come up with a vision. Serious vision will inform a blueprint. Developer will build to blueprint.

It is, of course, necessary for this exercise to take place in the unforgiving glare of unforgiving public.

Councillors commonly prefer to be somewhere else when the pellet hits the liquid. One alternative device is the erection of a willing heat shield.

Skilled players will find respected local dignitary and place the findings before them. Dignitary conducts fevered investigation among the hoi polloi. And lo, comes up with a measured decision not a million miles from original concept which is fully endorsed by something south of three per cent of the population thought to have a useful voice.

Reader will understand that M/s Allison, Chairperson of the Civic Society possesses exactly the clout which could deliver a result precisely to the taste of the Councillors.

The Society Web Site does not inspire expectations of imaginative approaches to cumulative problems. The dread word conservation is at the heart of the mission.

Perhaps however, perhaps the Councillors are wedded to an exciting, ground breaking, trend bucking solution tailored to break the dead hand firmly attached to a wheezing town stuck somewhere between 1919 and 1937.

And then again…………..


Nightwatchman

I lift up mine eyes

Councillor Pete has found a Consultant.

But Pete’s interview with the Sutton Coldfield Observer was cautious. ‘Consultant will be appointed soon’.

Furthermore, ‘this will produce a vision of the future, it may not result in Town Centre Designs. That will be up to the developer.’

Sp Pete is going to pay for a vision.

Strange that. The Tories, age old protectors of the public purse, are splashing out on a vision. Here is the unchallenged leader of a party in power since the Ice Age, who believes he has to spend our cash on a Vision.

You have to ask what his role is in all this. Why couldn’t he have the Vision himself. What does the Consultant bring to the party? Is, perhaps, the Consultant closer to the thoughts and dreams of Mr & Mrs Sutton Coldfield than the Councillor.

Perish the thought.

So, why spend the money?

Is it the Vision thing itself? Pete hasn’t got a Vision. Pete doesn’t know how to have one. Pete is terrified by the prospect of Visions. Where would he start; what would he say; and what if it were crap?

There’d be noone to blame if Pete’s vision didn’t pass muster. The desperate poverty of ideas within in vacuous heart of our local Tory cognoscenti would be exposed for the world to see.

So we can find it within our generous selves to feel sorry for Pete and his gang. Who among us would go out of his or her way to embrace public humiliation?

And we shall await both the selection of Mr Consultant and His Vision. When we shall have the opportunity to comment. And Pete can relax. If Vision is wonderful, it’s Pete’s. If it is less wonderful, Consultant had better look out.

Would it not have been better to ask us for a Vision?

And a lot cheaper.

Nightwatchman