I don’t watch much comedy any more, because half the jokes are at the expense of politicians. Even for small fry like me, that’s demoralising. News programmes constantly say my party leader isn’t doing well in the polls, and all I hear is them basically telling me I’m going to lose my job in May. I have an executive portfolio as well as my patch to look after, so my normal week is at least 50 hours. I gave up my job for this, but I have no working or pension rights as a councillor, and I can lose my seat overnight. That’s scary.
When I knock on your door, you tell me you never hear from me, despite the fact that I go to all your local meetings, send you regular letters and have knocked on your door several times before. You hold me personally to account for everything, from the state of the nearest tree to the war in Iraq. Some of you have awful, heartbreaking stories, and I do my best to help with the ever-decreasing resources we have. Others complain that the local high street doesn’t have any hanging baskets. The range of issues we deal with is surreal.
MPs look down their noses at councillors, and my party and the media ignore us. I put up with all the negativity, because I love what I do, but I wonder how long I can keep it up for – and how long you’ll let me. Because after all that effort to engage and help you, at local elections barely one in three of you bothers to vote. And when you do, it won’t be on my local performance and values, but about whether or not you like a certain high-profile MEP better than my leader. That’s what hurts the most.
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