‘Omnishambles’ has just been announced by Oxford English Dictionary as the 2012 word of the year, beating the word ‘pleb.’ It was judged by a panel of lexicographers and means: “a situation which is shambolic from every possible angle.” It excellently sums up a distressing experience I recently suffered alongside eight of my fellow newly-elected councillors: Daphne Bush (Pembroke St. Mary South,) Pat Davies (Fishguard North West,) Paul Harries (Newport,) Tessa Hodgson (Lamphey,) Lyn Jenkins (Solva,) Keith Lewis (Crymych,) David Lloyd (St. Davids,) and Reg Owens (St. Ishmaels.)
All of the newly-elected councillors for Pembrokeshire, Ceredigion and Carmarthenshire were invited to attend a collaborative event called ‘Six Months In…’ which was a day of ‘Induction Workshops’ organised by the WLGA. The ‘training’ was primary school sort of stuff, like being taught the difference between efficiency, effectiveness and efficacy. The whole day was an unremitting disaster, starting with the seemingly never-ending journey in a cold, misted-up minibus. By the time we eventually got to Pontrhydfendigaid a number of us felt rather nauseous – nothing to do with the company, everything to do with the bone-shaking ride! The venue (Pafiliwn Bont) was, as Cllr. David Lloyd described on his feedback form: “an aircraft hanger of a building,” bizarrely situated out in the Ceredigion wilderness. We were told that Aberystwyth University use the pavilion for their student balls, and, what a balls-up this event turned out to be.
Why a cavernous, echoey arena licensed for a 2,200 capacity was booked for only 23 members from three councils remains a mystery. Unfortunately the heating system (courtesy of industrial-grade fan heaters about a mile above our heads) had to be turned off during the seminars as they were so loud. You’ll be proud to learn that the day’s unfolding disappointments didn’t bog the Pembrokeshire contingent down. In fact, we struggled to stifle our titters throughout. We made our own fun, taking the view that if we didn’t laugh, we’d cry.
As mostly non-Welsh speakers, the Pembrokeshire delegation were disadvantaged by the seminar delivered on collaborative working with the National Assembly. Consistency was not the man from the Assembly’s long suit. I don’t remember him completing a single sentence in the same language in which he’d started. His live-interpreter was good, providing only Welsh-English translation, which was relayed via wireless earpieces. The difficulties arose because when our man from the Assembly switched from Welsh to English, we had to take out the earpieces to hear what he was saying. Just as he was getting into his English stride, he’d switch back to Welsh. The impossibility of putting the earphones back in as seamlessly as he changed language, resulted in missing out on quite a lot of what was said.
I’ve tried scrubbing the day’s memory from my mind, but failed. I’ve decided the next step for my recovery is naming and shaming those nine other new councillors from Pembrokeshire who should also have attended. They did, of course, make absolutely the right decision in passing up on the opportunity, but they still abandoned their fellow newbies in their hours of need –nine hours, in fact.
If you’re reading this, Cllrs. Steve Joseph (Milford Central,) Phil Kidney (Manorbier,) Alison Lee (Pembroke Dock Central,) Paul Miller (Neyland West and Labour group leader so I expected better) Jonathan Nutting (Pembroke St. Michael,) Jonathan Preston (Penally,) Gwilym Price (Goodwick,) Guy Woodham (Milford East) or Steve Yelland (Rudbaxton;) I’d like you to know that my feet have only just thawed out, and no longer will I be able to treat you as ‘proper’ councillors. That was the initiation ceremony, and you lot bottled it!
On a final note, I believe Cllr. Hodgson plans to set up a Pafiliwn Bont survivor’s support group. I said it sounded like a good idea, as long as I could be the committee chairman. As it was her idea, she thought she ought to land the top job. I begrudgingly agreed to accept vice-chair, on the agreement that, after a set amount of time, she steps aside and I get promoted to chair. I don’t know where these brilliant ideas come from!




Given that there is competition for this chairmanship, I assume it comes with a Special Responsibility Allowance (SRA) attached.
That being the case, the appointment should be made on merit in accordance with the Nolan Principles. The idea that such an important role should be taken up by a newly elected member when there are older, more experienced councillors waiting in the wings seems to be in direct conflict with the iron principle of Buggins’ turn.
I wouldn’t want to push my own claims, but, having survived the harshest winter in living memory (1947) close to the Arctic circle in what was then known as Cumberland, I feel I am ideally suited for the post.
A bit of mild discomfort in sub-tropical Pembrokeshire doesn’t even begin to compare. Misted up minibus windows, indeed. Where I come from the petrol used to freeze!
If my assumption about the SRA is wrong, please ignore this comment.
I’m sure your comment would be ignored by many regardless! Alas, I’m afraid no SRA is attached to this one per-se. That is unless, of course, at our inaugural meeting one of us can push the others into procuring some financial recompense from on high.
That reminds me of the following ditty I was saving for the moment when that much talked-about breakaway group forms on the council. I’ll just have to recycle it when that does eventually happen:
Whose troops said: “I’ll join if you pay me.”
SRAs, they ran dry,
Then the elders did cry:
“I’m leaving the group, can you blame me?!”
It seems that young Jacob is now challenging my claim to be Pembrokeshire’s premier purveyor of politically partisan poetry.
Below is a little ditty I composed a few weeks ago. Given that I was brought up just five miles from Wordsworth’s birthplace, it is not surprising that my efforts are way superior to those of this Johnny-come-lately.
Broken promises.
Vote for me, and I’ll not stoop,
To join a party, or political group.
Independent, I’ll remain,
If you put your cross beside my name.
Between the promise and the act,
Intrudes a melancholy fact.
For folk have often feet of clay,
When they get a sniff of an SRA.