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