by Alan Watkins

he Mayor of Medway has cost local council taxpayers £150,000. But is it so shocking?

Looking at the figures unearthed by the Labour councillors it’s not too surprising.

Whether you think it is right the mayoral office exists at all is more relevant.

According to the miffed opposition, the bill breaks down as staff (£74,000), another £24,000 went on parties and events, £1,200 on ceremonial clothes and £12,000 so far on his chauffeur-driven car.

These days the mayor is no more than a symbol. But he does an important job – one that goes back more than 400 years.

He is the Queen’s representative, the first citizen of the borough. He’s the meeter and greeter of the council and chairs their often acrimonious meetings.

Some mayors can be self-important prigs, others hard-working servants of an authority that needs to wave the flag. All raise a lot of cash for local charities.

Those staffing costs are reasonable.

There’s a secretary plus three officers that need to be on hand at different times when he is on duty. Then there’s things like computers, phones, cleaners, paper, postage and photocopying.

The cash spent on parties and events is a bit of Medway cheap-skating, to be honest.

Take out cleaning, repairs, room rental (well, someone has to meet the cost so why not the mayor?), hired waiters and maids, cooking and preparing everything from petits fours to biscuits you can forget the pate de foie gras.

The days of a roast swan with all the trimmings were long gone even before I got involved with events as a cub reporter. So £24,000 seems to cover a fair number of stale biscuits!

Ceremonial clothing costs are questionable.

One mayor whose name I have since forgotten spent more than four hundred quid on a fancy hat with black plumes. There were no queries from the politicians then: it was left to the Medway Messenger to uncover the truth.

The lady was never seen in it after its debut at the mayor-making ceremony. (She did look as though she was auditioning for a bit part in an Edwardian drama though).

Do we actually need our mayors to appear in flowing fancy dress? – No. Should they dress up at all? – Definitely. It’s a visible sign of their office (along with the civic chain).

It’s a tradition as important as Queens, uniformed soldiers and bewigged judges. Our outgoing, machismo mayor, Vaughan Hewett is one of the modern breed of Tory councillors.

He’s ideally suited as figurehead, chairer of meetings and shaker of hands.

The question is, will he gain a position of importance within the council now that his year has come to an end.

Or will he be one of the numerous Conservative cast-offs – which seems to happen to most of this council’s civic “leaders”.

Labour councillors are annoyed because they are being barred again from holding the civic office. Fair or not, it is politics.

Would Labour ever allow the Tories to hold office in future if they gain overall control of the council?

Meanwhile, their task should be holding the administration to account. I see little sign of that.

by David Jones

My award for eternal optimism goes to the ice cream man I heard trying to flog his wares one afternoon earlier this month.

This was the day, just when I thought it surely can’t get any colder in April, that a Siberian wind whipped up.

Undeterred, Mr Softee was doing his rounds in his van, with a tinny amplifier belting out I’m Forever Blowing Bubbles.

He was out again, two days later, in what was the coldest April week for 20 years. True, the kids were on their Easter holidays, but I couldn’t imagine anyone stepping outside for an ice cream – even if they were being given away.

This was what the marketing men call a hard sell. But at least he wasn’t at home in the warm on benefits.

George Osborne would have been proud of him. Mr Softee could well front up the next Tory election campaign.

Talking of George, I wouldn’t be a fully paid-up old Codger if I didn’t have a rant about benefits. Codger Watkins has already harrumphed on the subject but Codger Cook, unusually for him, has allowed Mr Osborne to escape unscathed.

Must have been too busy planting his onions. I feel more than qualified to harrumph myself, having been in employment for 47 years and never having claimed a penny in benefits. Perhaps I should count myself as lucky never to have been out of a job. Nevertheless it rankles with me that I have paid massively more into the system than I have ever got out of it.

While I have sympathy for any family left worse off by the new restrictions, I have none for those who have chosen benefits as a lifestyle and, until now, have been allowed to get away with it.

Labour, meanwhile, sensing it is out of touch with the national mood on the growth of the benefits culture, appears to have been converted on the Road to Damascus. It has jumped on the unfair bandwagon and given a foretaste of a probable new policy under which benefits will be based on National Insurance contributions.

Labour has now also discovered, like me, that people are peeved because, in the words of shadow work and pensions secretary Liam Byrne, they pay in an awful lot more than they ever get back. It took Labour a long time to work out what most of us already knew to be the case.

Meanwhile, I’m looking forward with eager anticipation to spending my state pension increase of £2.70 a week, which I received for the first time this month. For the more youthful among you, unaware of how the system works, State pensions are not taxed, so this means the 20 per cent slice of tax has to be taken off any other income or pensions you might receive. This means the State pension increase actually equates to £2.16 a week, not quite enough to embark on a wild spending spree.

To make matters worse for The Three Codgers, and millions like us, the Chancellor has frozen the personal tax allowance for over-65s at £10,500, the so-called granny tax. It means the only increase in income many pensioners will receive is a few quid a week, linked to inflation.

It’s easy to blame George Osborne, or Labour, for the mess we call our benefits system, but the reality is that ALL politicians stretching back over 40 years have a collective responsibility for allowing it to degenerate into such a shambles.

But why am I moaning about my pension? Some hard-working people I know haven’t received a pay rise for four, or even five years.

by Peter Cook

Good for Ann Barnes the Kent police commissioner. Standing up for her young people’s commissioner Paris Brown, against the outraged Mail on Sunday shows real courage and strength of purpose.

Just as her appointment of Paris, using her own salary to help fund the post, showed imagination and initiative.

What a shame her robust defence of her protegee was unsuccessful because what better way to get messages through to teenagers, than through a teenager?

The misfortune for Mrs Barnes was that she got a real teenager for her money. One that in the past has used social media indiscreetly, incautiously and politically incorrectly. One that expresses herself sometimes through derogative terms such as “pikey” or “fag”.

It’s not pretty. It sounds offensive. But it’s what teenagers do. You only have to sit on the top deck of a bus full of school kids to know that.

Of course Mrs Barnes could have opted for a nice young lady with a home counties accent and impeccable manners, who was discretion itself.

Although being a well brought up middle class girl in no way makes you immune to binge drinking or drug taking, and certainly not to tweeting about such things.

And how would this perfectly pleasant young person go down among the teenage sub-culture on the Isle of Sheppey. They would eat her alive I imagine. She wouldn’t have a hope. You need to know a society from the inside if you want to make a difference.

There are not many of us whose teenage utterances would stand scrutiny by the voraciously nasty Mail on Sunday or its counterpart the Daily Mail. Fortunately Twitter was not even a concept when I was young.

Sadly Paris Brown has been forced out of her job by this press campaign before she had a chance to get started.

I hope she is not too damaged by the experience and that Ms Barnes is able to recruit another teenager to do the work Paris had been engaged to do.

If she is able to keep even a few youngsters out of trouble the experiment will have paid off and the money will have been well spent. The cost of youth crime, in both monetary and human terms, is immensely greater than a £15,000 salary.

by Alan Watkins

Waking in a panic, sweat streamed from my forehead: the terror only hit me after I finally left the office to work (occasionally) at home.

The fear was brought about by my new car. It’s the first one I have owned for a long time.

The KM Group provided a little runabout that took me to France a few times. It also went to Belgium and the Netherlands. It was pleasant, insured and accident-free. It was also a diesel. And the taxman took his slice.

It got me about, was reliable, black and smothered in adverts. Its replacement is my very own car. It’s a shock to find out what it’s like for the great majority of car users.

I have had a licence for 35 years. I last got into trouble in 1990 when I tried to ram a police car at the foot of the Sir John Hawkins flyover (even young Codgers will remember that ugly structure).

Some years ago – about 12 or 13 as far as I can recall – someone actually succeeded in driving into the side of me at the Four Elms roundabout. (They had decided to go right and I was the sucker in their path).

Certainly it’s more that 10 years since I had an accident. The insurance people were advised.

“It doesn’t matter – you don’t have any years accumulated,” came their helpful retort.

Well, eventually someone agreed to comprehensively insure me at a sensible price, and accept I would be able to “protect” myself from accidents in 12 months time.

Panic over? No way, Jose.

The new motor has a petrol engine. I am sure I won’t be foolish enough to put diesel in the tank – but you never can tell. And that’s which drives my early hours insanity.

I try to keep away from the pumps as long as I can. I am sure I will always pick the right one to stick in the tank when I have to do it. But still I have this horrible vision of putting thick, clogging, oily diesel in the tank of my nice new beast.

The fuelling deserves to be accompanied by a bit of Berlioz, maybe the March to the Scaffold from his Symphonie Fantastique.

Courage, mon enfant!

So I was sitting discussing with my colleague (JS) various different topics when we stumbled across old films we used to watch as children. There is not a significant age gap between us, only 5 years, but our choices in favourite films does differ quite considerably.

Once we had finished listing our favourite films, JS touched on the main actor in one of her films (The Indian in the Cupboard) and how she used to have a crush on him when she was 3 years old! I was more shocked at the age of her first crush then the fact she had a crush on Henri from the film.

After controlling my laughter, JS added fuel to the fire by declaring two further crushes: the first, Neville Longbottom from Harry Potter & the Philosopher’s Stone and the second, Buzz McCallister from Home Alone. This send me into an uncontrollable fit of laughter, some of the others joined me. JS literally smiled and joined in with us.

The dreaded question fell on me when on of the girls asked me who I had a crush on when I was younger? I could honestly say I went blank and could not think of a single crush at such a young age.

So now I've had time to think about it, I think it only fair I declare my crushes from childhood films:

1. Allie from The Karate Kid Part I (She also appeared in Back to the Future)

2. Andy from The Goonies

3. Jessica from The Karate Kid Part III

So there you have it, my three choice.

Keep reading and I'll keep you posted on my life as The Odd One Out.

by David Jones

I have been considering the likely fate of another species destined to join the endangered list, along with the sciurus vulgaris (red squirrel) and the alauda arvensis (skylark).

I am referring, of course, to the landlordicus publicus greedicus, more commonly known as the greedy pub landlord.

This is a sub-species of landlordicus publicus (genial mine host), which has mutated and taken to blood-sucking because of shrinking habitat and declining numbers of suitable prey.

But let’s get serious. Publicans everywhere are facing a battle for survival, especially those stuck in the past and unable to offer their customers little more than a pint and a bar to lean on.

The cull of pubs in Medway makes depressing reading. In common with most other places, numerous hostelries in the Towns have gone belly up.

While many landlords try to give their customers value for money in difficult times, an increasing number have embarked on a path of blatant rip-off, especially where food is concerned.

To survive these days, a pub has to offer a welcoming ambience, good beer, a wide selection of quality wine, plus a varied lunch and evening menu – and all at affordable prices. And it’s no use just relying on “the regulars.” Bert from down the road who spends all evening drinking half of bitter won’t do much for a pub’s finances.

Some innovative marketing is crucial to pull in customers from further afield, though nothing too dramatic for fear of alienating the locals, some of whom will have more money to spend than Bert.

For my own part, I have never been much of a pub boozer. Three pints have always been my absolute limit and, these days, two is nearer the mark. My bladder isn’t what used to be. And I was shocked on a rare recent visit to a pub to be charged £3.20 for a pint. Perhaps I should get out more.

If the truth be known, I prefer wine. But I do enjoy, when finances permit, splashing out on an evening pub meal with a group of friends.

Some of my recent pub visits – I can get out more now that I am retired – underlined my contention that some publicans deserve to go bust.

Twice in five weeks we have visited village pubs in Kent and ordered a meal, once at lunchtime and once in the evening.

On the first occasion I was charged £12.95 for fish and chips, plus a helping of mushy peas which looked as though it had been put on the plate with a teaspoon.

In all, a meal so minuscule I felt like saying: “We didn’t order anything from the children’s menu.”

On the second occasion, we were charged around £15 a head for a poorly cooked main course, with my dish of baked cod loin being so small it could easily have been baked minnow. This time I filled in the What Did You Think? card given to us by the landlord in less than complimentary terms.

The landlords who own or manage such pubs, whether in town or country, are in business on borrowed time. They may provide more than beer and a counter to lean on, but they are insulting their customers’ intelligence – and rifling their wallets.

People are not stupid. They know when they are being ripped off. And they will vote with their feet.

Fortunately, there are still many pubs which offer good value meals at affordable prices.

They deserve to survive.

Those which treat their customers with contempt, just to make a fast buck, deserve to die.

by Peter Cook

by Alan Watkins

A £2million bid for lottery funding could take Fort Amherst a stage closer to the dream of being a world visitor attraction.

Whether the dream is either justified or a reality is beside the point.

Fort Amherst as we know it today was originally conceived in the 1980s as an historic treasure that could create tourist jobs. It came in the wake of the closure of the dockyard.

Nearly 30 years on, some parts of it have been opened up but much of the complex is still closed to the public. In part, this is because of ongoing military use.

Part is because the funds are not there and another constraint is because the mining beneath the Great Lines has never been properly mapped or explored.

A bid is being drawn together by the charity trust set up to look after the former Army gunpowder store and by the council. It will go some way towards regaining the initiative lost when the Great Lines bid for World Heritage Status was turned down.

In my opinion the combination of the Historic Dockyard, the fort and Brompton Barracks was doomed to fail. UNESCO, the people who decide what is of world importance and what is not, had insisted too many of the existing heritage sites are in the UK and the US.

They want to look to Mali, Mongolia, Patagonia or Panmunjon but no longer the west.

Another factor against the bid was, I believe, the failure of our community to get behind the project. Medway is full of people who eat breakfast in the dark, arrive home in the dark and spend the rest of their time (and their money) in London. Others are sceptics.

“We aren’t going to win because we never win, therefore there’s no point in taking part,” seems to be the philosophy of many who live here during the day.

It reminds me of a former mayor’s question to me more than 20 years ago: “Why on earth did you want to come here?” The simple answer is that I like the Medway Towns, and the Medway people, and one day I might actually get the feeling that I am accepted as a Medway resident rather than an incomer.

The trust is seeking to motivate people to back their bid. They‘re inviting people to have a look on February 17 at where the £2 million will be spent.

Much of it will be continuing the restoration of the fort. More will be on opening up the Middle Lines, which have been lost over the years beneath clay and earth.

I wish them well. I might even turn up myself.

by David Jones

A "pet" dog which took a lump out of a family friend’s hand the other day reminded me why I’m not a great lover of man’s best friend. That goes for cats, too.

Considering there are roughly about 10 million cats and about the same number of dogs in the UK, it’s clear that a great many people do not share my views.

Cats, well, they can never really be “pets” in the true sense as they do their own thing most of the time, not to mention bringing in the occasional dismembered mouse or sparrow.

Maybe I’ve got a hang-up from my childhood, when my parents had a cat. I can still recall the unruly feline’s habit of sharpening its claws on the arm of our sofa, or jumping up on my back and then sliding down with its claws extended. If there had been such a thing as an Asbo for cats, my parents’ maniacal moggie would have fully deserved one.

Dogs, well, it’s much easier to make a case for them as pets. And, of course, taking a dog for a walk would force me into some much needed exercise.

On the other hand, the prospect of carrying a plastic bag to scoop up the pooch’s mess makes me feel quite queasy. Then there’s the problem of what to do with Rover when you go on holiday. This is all just too much hassle for me. I prefer to live in a pet-free environment.

My ramblings about pets bring me neatly on to the main point I want to make: don’t forget that domesticated animals, and dogs in particular, can still be dangerous, however “cute” they may appear.

I have even been bitten by my kids’ pets, a hamster and a rabbit, though not at the same time. Admittedly, though, not many people have been savaged by a goldfish.

Our friend was attacked by a dog as we were leaving a pub after a lunchtime drink. The terrier-type canine yelped extremely loudly, then jumped up and bit her finger. All she had done was to bend down slightly to take a closer look at it.

The animal’s owner immediately retorted: “Well, you shouldn’t have bent down.” An absurd comment, because that meant that any passing stranger stopping to look at the “cute” dog was in danger of being attacked. A child could have ended up minus a nose.

The moral of this story is that no dog can ever be fully trusted. No matter how cute and cuddly it might appear, there’s always a danger that their base animal instincts will surface when you least expect it.

“Never put your face close to a dog, even if it’s your own. They are unpredictable.” That was the message drummed into me when I was a kid and I still remember it to this day. Fifty years on, that message still holds good. Beware of the dog.

Having said that, I am fully aware that, for millions of people, dogs are much loved pets, a source of both companionship and joy.

By the way, my wife disagrees with almost every word I have written, except for the sentence above this one – and she wants a dog for a pet, now that we have both retired. But I’m going to take a lot of persuading. Happy dog stories, or letters of complaint from dog lovers, can be addressed to me, via the Medway Messenger.

by Peter Cook

It's great news that Eastgate House is to be developed and restored with the help of a Lottery grant. Well done Medway Council.

But it’s sad that across the river a much older building, the Frindsbury Barn, languishes derelict, despite grandiose castles in the air schemes for it to be restored for the benefit of the community.

It’s four-and-a-half years since the barn was off-loaded by the Church Commissioners, unburdening themselves of a huge white elephant. Since then nothing has happened to bring the 800 year old structure – described as the Queen of Kentish Barns – back into good repair.

If this majestic mediaeval marvel falls down it will be our fault – for failing to kick up enough fuss over its neglect.

Only the still small voice of the Frindsbury and Wainscott Community Association has been raised in protest, when what’s needed is the roar of public anger.

The problem, of course, is money. Restoration projects like these cost millions, and I’m guessing that the grandly named Heritage Design and Development Team, which owns the Barn, are not sitting on that kind of boodle.

The company has plans to build houses on a nearby quarry as a means of generating finance. But this is a pie in the sky scheme. First the quarry would have to be filled in, which would take, probably, 10 years or so.

It would also involve building roads across prime farmland to get the lorries through. And local people are set against more housing in the quiet cul-de-sac of Parsonage Lane, where the quarry and the barn exist.

Meanwhile, the barn remains unprotected and open to the elements, despite the fact that the owners told me six months ago work would soon take place to sheet it over.

The council has powers to carry out work to make it weather-tight and bill the owners for the work.

But it says it cannot do this as the timbers are sound and it is not in imminent danger of collapse.

Or put another way, you have to wait until it’s falling down before anyone takes action.

They say because the barn is open to the air, the timbers are kept healthy and free of rot. Well there’s some truth in that. Holding in the damp is a recipe for fungal growth. But restoration experts know about that and have techniques for keeping ancient structures both aired and protected.

Its present state of dereliction makes it look like an abandoned ruin, attractive only to rats and vandals.

What is needed is a properly structured project backed by the kind of people who know about restoration and pulling together the right kind of funding. Schemes of this kind can’t be managed by small private concerns, unless these are run by people with exceptionally deep pockets.

It’s time for everyone concerned with the barn, the council, English Heritage, the owners, us, to think carefully about bringing in heavyweight assistance to get the job done.