Do you remember that film, Merry Christmas Mister Lawrence? Where David Bowie gets buried up to his neck in sand at the end? The one with the brilliant theme tune? That’s what dealing with planning applications feels like.
Although perhaps I shouldn’t be bullying the planning officers et al quite so much. As Badger reminds us in his column last week, their lack of resources from on political high is perhaps more of a problem than I give them credit for. I do, however, think that if you have a job with that kind of power, then you should probably use your powers for good. I wonder how much they have to go against personal feelings because someone higher up the food chain has instructed them to do so? And how far up does this food chain go? Who really decides what happens?
In my first piece for the Herald, I mentioned that Huw George – my local councillor – had promised in a meeting back in May that he would help me fight the dragons at the council, and assist me in my OPD quest. Again, I had been reminded of this by the same Badger piece from last week, his call to arms for people to get involved in grass roots politics and change things from the bottom up, as it’s clear from last week’s election result, there’s not much chance of changing things from the top down. If you’ve been following my column for the last few weeks, it will be pretty obvious to you that Cllr George didn’t in fact, don his cloak and/or armour and come to my rescue. But in that initial meeting he also told me of his plans to be a superhero for someone else. My friend Roger.
Roger and his good lady wife live up the road from my land in a static caravan. He is 76, she is 74. They moved onto their land in 1997 – pretty much 23 years ago. They’ve been there happily ever since. Some slight agro from the council, years ago, but largely left alone to get on with their farming and forestry life. Until a couple of years ago. Someone complained about them being there. And even though they had been there for so long, it had never been necessary for them to apply for a license under the ten rule rule that I referred to in this column last week. It had never been an issue. Now, all of a sudden, someone had complained, and it was an issue.
The council are aware of all sorts of breachers occurring in the countryside, but they turn a blind eye. That is, until someone complains. They are absolutely complaints led, and go around the place blinkered to everything else. So for 20-odd years Roger had been happily chugging along with things, unaware that as soon as someone decided to be mean for the sake of being mean, then he was going to get into trouble. The council inevitably rocked up and gave him a hard time, and then they made him apply for planning permission, which they swiftly refused. The very next day, without so much as a knock on the door, an enforcement notice appeared on his gate. He had twelve months to get out. The twelve months is up this December. Yes. Now.
Huw George, back in that meeting in May, told me that at Christmas he would be going on BBC Wales, to tell the world about the atrocity being committed by the council at throwing an elderly couple out of their home of – over two decades – at Christmas. He bombasted and buffed, and assured me that not only would he help me, that he would help Roger too. I cried, as I was so grateful to him, and shook his hand, and thanked him so much. The other people at the meeting were similarly impressed with his friendly and helpful attitude, and we all happily went home for tea.
Alas, when it came to it, Huw didn’t help me, and he didn’t go on TV for Roger and Mrs Roger. I emailed him a couple of weeks back to ask him why he hadn’t. He actually replied to that email, and didn’t ignore it like all the emails I had sent him during the summer after that meeting. In his correspondence he denied saying he would help. An email war between us followed, and it crossed my mind to publish them here as a kind of Christmas nativity mini play, about keeping your word, especially if you’re a man of God, and wondering why someone would get someone’s hopes up, knowing that they had no intention of helping, but just wanted to sound good in front of a mixed gathering.
So it’s Christmas. And where’s Huw? Not on the Tele raising awareness about an elderly couple in the parish that have been royally screwed over, that’s for sure. He’ll be in his house, as fake as the turrets on his bay window, that reveals an ever so large, classy and upmarket Christmas tree. Joy to the world?
He’ll be in his chapel in Llandissilio and perhaps elsewhere, preaching the word of God at Christmas, the charitable echoes of our Lord, worshipping He who encourages us to help those less fortunate than ourselves at this time of year. Peace and goodwill to all men. Except the slightly scruffy, old or poor ones.
He’ll be driving around in one of those nice motors that are parked on his six car driveway. A paragon of virtue, travelling around in warm comfort, spreading the good word, in a vehicle worth more second hand than Roger’s static caravan. Worth more new than Roger’s entire land probably. Homelessness? The poor? Do me a favour.
I’ll help you. He said. Empty words. Jesus would have helped us, Huw.
But one great thing about all this, is when the wheel comes full circle, and Badger, our wonderful, literary Banksy of Pembrokeshire, encourages us to become councillors, then why not? Do it people. I’m learning all about it, and I’ll let you know what I find.
In the meantime, I’ve already decided to stand against Huw in 2022. It’s a long way away yet, but that gives me time, and I do enjoy an interesting journey.
Merry Christmas, Mister George…..