You’re in…

Labour of Love

By Simon Buckley

A bearded man named Peter entered the room, shook my hand and possibly changed my life for ever with the simple phrase “You’re in.”

A few minutes earlier I’d been sitting in a kitchen, decorated in the cottage style – chintzy walls, lead patterned windows and a pine table. It was an overcast Saturday morning and the light was sombre. Seated opposite me was the bearded man named Peter. James, younger and thin, was to my right and, on the left, sat Norbert, an avuncular gentleman with soft, white hair. This was The Panel. They, and they alone, were the gatekeepers to my becoming a candidate in the local council elections. Until I’d been vetted by the panel I couldn’t be put on the list of potential candidates for selection.

Against the better judgement of my wife, several friends and my 93 year old nana, I’d decided several weeks ago to apply to go on the panel, and I’d sought advice from some veterans. “The panel will be no problem” said one councillor. “It’s just to check that you’re not mad”. I was immediately reminded of Catch 22, as I surely wouldn’t be volunteering for this unless I was mad.

A few days before the interview I received an email asking me to complete a written exercise that I’d have to read out on the day. It asked what I would do if a late license had been applied for in my ward and some local residents objected. I set about dissecting the question like a proper swot and, having completed my homework, read the official scary stuff about becoming a local councillor. There was nothing more to be done now except turn up and convince them that I wasn’t insane.

I arrived early, like an eager boy scout, and was shown into the front room of a terraced house. Tea was made and I chatted with another applicant, who I’d met a few weeks ago at a Refounding Labour event. It was soon my turn. I settled onto a wooden chair, half expecting my legs not to reach the floor, and was asked to go through my exercise. Instead of suggesting that the pub should stay open all night, and that the objectors were just interfering busybodies who didn’t want anyone to have any fun, I was glad that I’d opted for humility as reassuring nods and smiles accompanied my decision to seek advice, consult with everyone and gather as much evidence as possible before recommending any action.

“Why do you want to be a Labour councillor?” Norbert then asked, casually. “Good question..” I replied, and waited expectantly for the next one. “Well,” he continued patiently, “What I mean is, do you understand what the duties of a councillor are?”. As I considered my answer I thought of the famous Monty Python sketch where Michael Palin, an accountant dressed in the outfit of a city gent, marches into John Cleese’s stuffy office and announces that he wants to be a lion tamer. Cleese then shows him a big scary lion and Palin quickly changes his mind. Norbert’s job was clearly to winkle out the weak and the delusional.

But, as good cop, bad cop scenarios go, this was not exactly Life on Mars. I even wondered if it was a trap as I answered the various questions regarding negotiating skills, how to work with the Labour whip and what community work I’d done. It stayed good natured until, after 20 minutes of gentle probing, Peter leant forwards. “We have to ask this,” he whispered, apologetically, “but do you have anything in your background that we should know about?” My mind spun, like the symbol on a computer when asking Google to search for something particularly obscure.

“Well, I like a drink” I answered carefully, thinking back to the years when I worked for Loaded. I didn’t mention the party where I had a full samba band in my front room and my brother got off with a girl dressed as the devil. “Drinking’s fine” replied Norbert, “It’s more to do with embezzlement and child molestation.” I had no history of either of those things – not that I would have confessed to 3 strangers in a kitchen if I had. “That’s great, then.” said Peter, clearly relieved not to have to conduct a Tom Watson style interrogation on me, as if I were a News International executive. Whilst they discussed my application, I went back into the lounge. I’d hardly had time to collapse onto the aged white leather sofa when Peter came in with the good news. I’d fooled them into believing that I wasn’t mad, although, as I said, Catch 22 clearly states that I must be.