Priming the Pump...

...The reason I did not much keep up with the, truth to tell, hilarious television comedy 'Vicar of Dibley' was not through lack of delight in the programme or ability to set time aside to enjoy the romp, busy life though indeed one leads.

Whilst in real life I am much of the same opinion as Ronnie Knox [see earlier] on the matter of joshing priests - not caring for priests who attempt to prove they are 'men of the people' by telling rude jokes - as a piece of enlightened escapism I thoroughly enjoyed what little I allowed myself to see of the Rev. Grainger's salty take on life and the libidinous forces that do and will pulse under the cassock.

My self-imposed exile was largely prompted by the select and potent local worthies in The Wolds who, though applauding the vicar's role in the proceedings, took great exception to the depiction of the local Parish Council as a mob of inbred lunatics, with not a complete brain between them. These same worthies being the constituents of our own Parish Council, you can see how they might thus have been affected.

I rapidly learned that any mention on my part of 'Did you see the larrikin nonsense young Hugo got up to last night?' or similar was a belter for raising hackles and tempers in any meeting we might be about to commence. Maurice, in particular, as Chair of Council (in perpetua it seems, the post essentially having been inherited from his late father Stanley) took deepest umbrage at any hint he might share some of the stiff-neckedness of his virtual counterpart David Horton.

Any hint of a hint would result in us all being detained after hours by some invented, yet crucial, debate on the proper voting protocol that should pertain during British Summer Time or some such. On one particularly vicious occasion when someone had had the temerity openly to suggest that said David Horton would make a better Chairman than he, we barely crept away at dawn after a fierce, protracted and largely unresolved debate as to whether a particular item of expenditure (a new kettle for the village hall) could be VAT deductible if its usage were not restricted to elected officers and their immediate families when carrying out official duties.

It became, therefore, so much the easier for me not to have watched the programme lest I let slip any reference to jolly, though dangerous, comparisons between it and us. A rather charitable act of self-denial on my part I largely have felt over the years.

That these thoughts are before me - and thus by extension you - at this juncture is the realisation that the dread time is nearly upon us once more to hold elections to the very Parish Council at the heart of the matter. This is never a happy time, redolent with occasion for re-vitalising any discord or worse that oft silently lurks in the bosoms and waistcoats of my beloved and largely belovable flock.

Were it just a matter of leaving them to it and just being handy in case the umpiring hand of a clergyman were needed to call halt to exigent hostilities, I would not overly much mind. But, naturally, it is never as easy as that, for camps and proponents of candidates will constantly seek to curry favour or confirm voting intentions on behalf of so-and-so standing for election. For weeks I am assailed from every side and quarter by hectoring or subtle souls seeking info on my thoughts or proffering quasi-bribes. (Mercifully there have never been grounds for any incident on my part to be used for blackmail in this regard, though I have no doubt that should there ever be any such, it would be done in a trice. The Wolds not Watergate is where one should seek dirty political tricks these days!)

In some ways I have compounded my own difficulties in seeking to enlarge both the electorate and the pool of candidates by actively promoting the work of the Parish Council across the piste as it were. My view is that village life needs a Council reflecting the diversity of its changing community and not a cabal of 'usual suspects' controlling affairs in a manner not much deviating from the feudal days of yore. Needless to say this same cabal is not similarly minded and makes my life sometimes quite unpleasant as I endeavour to bring on board fresh blood.

David - sorry I mean Maurice of course! - is particularly adept at seeking to undermine my efforts by pointing out to any who might be tempted by my urgings to 'give it go' and stand for elections, that there are terrors ahead for the unwary, the naive or the not entirely straight personage. He refers of course to the dread and dreadful Statutory Instrument of torture known as 'The Parish Councils (Model Code of Conduct) Order 2001', which has been the bane of the lives of any who would otherwise wish to participate in local democratic government.

This Code of Conduct demands more active proof of personal probity both before and after the fact, than is ever actually demonstrated by our own national Government or its iniquitous members. Its strictures are legion and as mad as the Gadarene swine said legion of devils once inhabited. Any remotest connection between a person and a vote that could possibly in any way intimate a bias or preference must be ruthlessly sought out and destroyed at source, no matter how absurd the consequences.

I myself found I had to be barred from assisting to debate or decide whether to substitute bingo with a whist drive for last year's autumn fete on the grounds that my great uncle Neville had once held a post with the Rank organisation. Seeking to redress any suggestion of undue leaning towards bingo by noting, for the record, that I have a cousin who once met John Aspinall, the legendary lord of the casino world - who if he had been required to express a preference would most certainly have come down on the side of whist - merely gave Maurice, who was in a foul mood that night, the opportunity to opine that the very whiff of corruption was palpable in any room I might be in whilst voting was underway! (I did later get some measure of revenge in having him excluded from discussions about restoring the village fountain, as he owned two shares in the local water company - but that is only to acknowledge the dire effect of these ridiculous regulations on otherwise gentle and well-meaning souls. Much like, of course, the impact of NHS targets on the behaviour of nurses - see earlier.)

All in all a tempestuous and fraught few weeks ahead. Campaigning begins in earnest tomorrow and voting for the Council at the end of the month. (Perhaps the time to rent out a 'Vicar of Dibley' DVD or two. Though better slip off to Norwich for that, just in case I'm spotted!)