From an Outside Reporter at the Parish Council Meeting
"Democracy still lives in Blair's Britain"
"I WANT some real, grass roots politics. Go and give it the full Hypit
treatment." So said my editor. "Westminster? You have to be joking" "Swaffham
Prior", he said. "Swaffhamwhere?" "Prior, it's a village in Cambridgeshire."
A village parish council meeting? Me, an award winning lobby correspondent? "Look", I protested, "I'm used to sitting in expensive restaurants eating seared swordfish nicoise and drinking Grand Cru Chablis while some half-cut junior minister dishes the dirt on his boss. That's political journalism." "Fine," he said, "they-ll probably give you a cup of tea and a fish paste sandwich."
It was a late night sitting. The night was dark and I was splashing through puddles trying to find the village hall. I wondered if I would get through security. I'd left my press pass behind. I needn't have worried. No one showed the slightest interest as I took a seat in what I assumed to be the press gallery and looked at the Order Paper.
Reports from the Upper Houses came first. These turned out to be largely a load of rubbish. There was some difference of opinion between County and district on the murky subject of detritus. Is it better to bury or to burn? Ely is for burning, a proposal which, for sake of anexample, took us to the Isle of Man. Here, so we were told, the enterprising islanders incinerate their waste with such efficiency they have spare capacity and so import the stale butties, fish and chip wrappings and worn out football boots which threaten to engulf Liverpool. This Scouse ordure is obliterated in the Manx furnace fora fee. Better yet, the island enjoys free electricity, generated by hot air no doubt. At this point, some members who had appeared to become suspiciously somnolent during these early exchanges, became suddenly animated by the prospect of Lottery funding and EU grants to build a plant which would consume rubbish from as far away as Milton Keynes. Swaffham Pyre, waste disposal capital of the fens, with no more electricity bills and purer air to boot. Purer air? That's what was said. Remember this information comes from a land of three-legged men and tail-less cats.
Leaving the rubbish behind, the man from Cambridge turned to more sinisterthings, the take-over of the county by the Scots; a sign no doubt that the Hibernian Mafia are stretching their tentacles from Westminster into local government.
The District representative then took us through the looking glass into wonderland, or so it seemed. Ely is to become England's silicon fen. For reasons not entirely apparent, this will require, at some unspecified time in the future, the building of palatial new offices to house civil servants, whose job it will be to attempt to strangle the thrusting new hi-tech companies with red tape. Meanwhile,until this Utopia arrives, Ely will become the site of an over-flow car park forStunted Airport. Curiouser and curiouser.
At last we moved to more pressing matters such as the filling of council vacancies. No messing about with by-elections. Swaffham's seasoned representatives of the people recognise a sucker when they see one. A smiling Peter Hart was duly elected nem. con. His maiden speech was refreshingly brief. In fact I missed it altogether.
Economically merging the function of Mr Speaker, First Lord of the Treasury and Leader of the House, the Chairman then dealt with something called "Matters Arising". The title seemed apt since, as far as I could determine, the matters in question continue to arise without risk of resolution. It is also a useful device whereby members can register their disapproval of inertia without the tedium ofundertaking action themselves.
Next came the Sexton's shed. What a solemn ring the phrase has! The parish church is seeking to improve its amenities by purchasing the shed in the cemetery. This grave matter was given appropriate consideration. Why, it was asked, after more than a thousand years, did the church need a toilet? To me the reason was obvious. That is a very long time to sit with crossed legs. However, doubtless there is a spare font or a strategically placed flying buttress handy for those caught short during a long sermon. What was the purpose of the shed? It is a storage place, we were informed, for trestle tables used at harvest honkies, witches' sabbaths and other pagan rituals unsuited for the Christian church, along with picks, shovels, wheelbarrows and, this in a hushed voice, grave templates. It was, you might say, an open and shut coffin. The Sexton's shed must remain the property of the people.
And so we turned to the recreation of the Recreation Ground, whereupon a member of the council proceeded to give a presentation which rivalled London's bid for the Olympics. Architects, planners, lawyers, Health and Safety Executives, Highway Authorities and the Football Association are all lined up to play their part. There is even to be a laser survey to prove that the playing field is not a range of mountains masquerading as a fenland meadow. I thought I heard a member say that by 2006 the Recreation Ground should be full of Bengal tigers. Unfortunately I had misheard, it will be Burwell Tigers, a football club. Presumably the name refers to the black and yellow colours of the shirts and not a habit of eating the opposing side?
The Clerk to the House, the only woman present, seems to juggle a number of functions such as Public Works liaison, Hansard and Foreign Secretary. In the latter capacity she raised the Italian question. The village has been invited to twin with an Italian town, any Italian town. Have the Italians suddenly become deeply unpopular, the pariahs of the European Union? The offer was not greeted with enthusiasm. It was pointed out that twinning would cost money - alterations to the village signs and a copy of "Teach yourself Italian" for a start. One member thought that if the village were to twin it should be with Colombey-Les-Deux-Eglises on the grounds of architectural compatibility. It was pointed out that, while De Gaul's birth place might well have two churches, neither of them is in Italy. The invitation to conversazione and Chianti was declined. Indeed a whole raft of official and quasiofficial correspondence quite rightly raised little enthusiasm. Even a booklet on "Vibrant Local Leadership" by a distinguished recent visitor to the Swaffhams, Mr John Prescott, seemed destined to be recycled - unread.
A tranche of miscellaneous financial matters, all doubtless discussed at length and carefully scrutinised by a Select Committee, went through on the nod.
Now it was Question Time and I do not mean the stage-managed farce witnessed weekly in the Palace of Westminster. At the Parish Council it's not just death watch beetle that may come out of the woodwork. What is more, problems are not ignored or swept under the carpet, they are, I discovered, frequently resolved there and then. How refreshing!
Take pot holes. In the House of Commons the PM would first of all denythe existence of pot holes and vehemently assert that if pot holes did exist they were caused by the last Tory administration which, through incompetence and sleaze, had allowed them to remain. Furthermore, (and the PM was admitting nothing you understand) the number of any pot holes that might exist had been reduced by at least 7% since Labour came to power. Contrast this, all-too-likely, fiasco with what happened when the question of pot holes was raised at the village meeting. Not only was the existence of this nuisance freely admitted, a practical solution, namely amixture of gravel and dry cement, was proposed. What is more, one memberactually volunteered to fill in the holes.
Again, take the question of the travellers' horses. What a meal the Home Secretary would have made of that! Urgent investigations were being undertaken by security forces to establish whether, as rumoured, the horses are Arabs with possible connections with Al Quaida. Meanwhile the animals would be corralled without trial (cries of "Shame"). The owner would receive counselling and given a First Class ticket to Albania to enable him to rejoin a touring circus. Alternatively he would be entitled to draw full benefits while plucking turkeys in Norfolk. The Swaffham solution to the real problem was for the Chairman to volunteer to have a word with the Romany with the free-range horses and ask him to shorten their tethers. Simple.
The session ended after two hours. In that time I had heard more common sense than we hear in two years at Westminster.
I filed my piece. "Good stuff," said my editor. "Sorry it-s the inside, Jim. Something big-s come up". Just my luck that Charles should decide to make an honest woman of Camilla on the day I was hoping to put Prior's democrats on the front page.