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
Saturday 29 March 2008
Saturday 22 March 2008
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
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
Friday 14 March 2008
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
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
Sunday 9 March 2008
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
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
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