Mike was elected to the local council on 7 May. This extract from his diary records his first three days as he settles into his new position. It turns out that life as a councillor is not exactly what he was expecting.
Monday 11th May
After the last three days, I’m going on the wagon.
Don’t get me wrong, they’ve been the happiest days of my life. I’ve never been so popular down my local, I don’t think I put my hand in my pocket once. The guv’nor, Baz, he must have bought me ten pints at least; the new neigbours next to the Crown have been moaning about the noise, and he’s planning a few outdoor events this summer. “Put a word in for us, Mike, with the licensing committee” he said, which I would have done anyway, the mug, but I’m not turning down free booze, am I? Sharon’s been giving me the look since Saturday morning. She’s not impressed by my political career: though, in case anyone reading this needs reminding, yours truly is now an elected representative of the people of Mardon West.
Still, at least no work today. I’d already resigned from Pratt and Sons by Friday lunchtime – I wasn’t waiting on the count. Couldn’t really see myself driving the Daf round the trading estates with all the new responsibilities I’d be taking on, could I. Mr Pratt was quite emotional about it, said he’d vote for me at the general. Sound bloke. Told Sharon over a bottle of Lambrini that we’d be on easy street now – the wage and a half, the expenses, all of it. She didn’t say anything. She just sort of looked at me.
Should probably look into the wage business actually. Greg from the campaign mentioned something about an “allowance scheme” the other night which I assumed was just a polite way of putting it. To bed.
Tuesday 12th May
Morning from hell. Apparently you’re meant to drink water before you go to bed, who knew. Got a call from a woman called Yvonne at the council – sounded like she’d been there since the war – saying I need to come in Wednesday for “member induction”. I told her I’d already won the election love, no need for inductions, thanks. She said it was about pecuniary interests, the code of conduct, the IT systems.
The salary. Right. The salary. Sharon found it on the council’s own website while I was in the shower. Thirteen thousand, eight hundred pounds. Not a month. Not a quarter. A year. Plus a “special responsibility allowance” if you chair a committee, which I am apparently not currently slated to do because, in the words of our new group leader Darren, I am “still bedding in”. Bedding in. I gave up a forty-grand HGV gig with overtime for thirteen-eight and I am bedding in.
Got Greg on the phone. “But you’re a councillor, Mike, not an MP.” He said it in the same voice you’d use to tell a child the dog had to be put down. I said yes thank you Greg, I am aware I’m a councillor, I am asking what an MP gets. He said about ninety-three thousand. Ninety-three. So my mate Stevo, who got in for one of the Lincolnshire seats last summer, is on ninety-three grand for going on GB News twice a month, and I’m on thirteen for going down the town hall every other Tuesday? Greg said we’d “look at by-election opportunities down the line”. Down the line. I’d already told Sharon she could pack in the cleaning at the surgery. She’s been pricing carpets.
Had a bit of a lie down this afternoon. Yvonne has emailed over the new councillors’ handbook ahead of tomorrow. Forty-seven pages. I had a flick through. Chapter one is “Standards in Public Life — the Nolan Principles”. Chapter two is “Section 106 Agreements and Planning Obligations”. Chapter three is “Refuse Collection Routing: A Brief Overview”. Nothing in the contents about immigration. Nothing about Europe. Nothing about the boats. I had a look in the index, just to be sure. “Boats” comes between “Boating Lakes (Maintenance Of)” and “Boundary Reviews”.
Closed the laptop. Going down the Crown.
Wednesday 13th May
Got in for nine. Yvonne met me at reception; younger than she’d sounded on the phone, late forties maybe, glasses on a chain, the kind of woman who’s seen seven leaders of the council come and go and won’t be hurried about any of it. She gave me a lanyard with my photo on it.
Started with the register of interests. Yvonne talked me through it for the best part of an hour. I had to declare my employment (none, as previously mentioned, thanks Sharon), Sharon’s employment (cleaner, the surgery, three mornings), property (the house, mortgaged – although Yvonne says you only have to declare a “beneficial interest” and I am not sure I have a beneficial relationship with that mortgage), shares (Sharon’s premium bonds, which I said no to, and Yvonne said best to put them on, so I did), and gifts and hospitality received over the value of fifty pounds.
I asked her what counted as hospitality. She said anything received in your capacity as a councillor. I asked if pints counted. She said only if they were received in my capacity as a councillor. I said well I’ve only been a councillor four days and I’ve had about forty pints, what does she reckon. She did this small smile that I am going to have to get used to and said, “Mr Stray, the test is what a reasonable member of the public would think.” A reasonable member of the public down the Crown would think I was off my head not to take them, but I didn’t say that. I put down: “approximately ten pints, the Crown public house, value circa £45.00.” Under the threshold, see. Crafty.
Then code of conduct. Then “predetermination and bias”, which is when you’ve made your mind up about something before the meeting starts. Yvonne said this is a particular risk in planning. I asked her about licensing. She did the small smile again.
IT systems took another hour. They gave me a council email: mike.stray@mardon.gov.uk. Opened it up, it already had nineteen messages in it. Yvonne said she’d walk me through the first few. The first one was from a Mrs Holloway of Larchwood Avenue, asking what I personally intended to do about the asylum hotel near the bypass. I sat up a bit. Finally. Something I had actually campaigned on. I started typing. Yvonne, gently, the small smile gone now, said it might be worth her explaining the position first.
The position, it turns out, is this. The Home Office, who are part of the government, contract directly with the hotel chain. The council is “consulted” – Yvonne’s air quotes – but the council cannot refuse. There’s a Judicial Review route, which we tried in 2023, and we lost, and it cost £180,000 of taxpayers’ money. She showed me the file.
I asked her, alright, what CAN I do. Yvonne said I could write back to Mrs Holloway acknowledging her concerns and signposting her to the Home Office complaints procedure.
I sat there for a bit. Yvonne went and got me a coffee.
Met Darren in the corridor on the way out. Group Leader Darren. He asked how I’d got on. I told him about the hotel. He said, “We’re not in government yet, Michael.” Michael. Nobody’s called me Michael since my mum died.
On the bus home – no parking permit yet, that’s Tuesday – I thought about Stevo in Lincolnshire on ninety-three grand, going on GB News, saying things about the boats. About how someone, somewhere, must actually be able to stop them. About how it’s looking less and less like that someone is me.
Down the Crown tonight. Baz asked if I’d had a word about the licensing yet. I told him it’s in hand, Baz. Predetermination. It’s a word.
A note for readers: The original name given by the author to this councillor was Mike Sutton. However, after publication, we were contacted by a real Essex councillor called Mike Sutton, who is very much not a Reform councillor. We would like to reassure readers – and him – that the Councillor Mike Sutton featured in this diary is entirely fictional. The name match was an unfortunate coincidence and while he was clearly amused by it, we can only apologise. The author has now changed the name to Mike Stray – checked against a register of councillors’ names and appears safe. For now.
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