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A hair-raising afternoon!
Feb 5, 2008
THE powers that be at Teesdale Council (though ‘power' and ‘Teesdale Council' are not words usually spoken in the same breath) thought they'd have a bit of fun and show some political cunning. The big showdown meeting was all set up; everyone was there, including some councillors so rarely out and about that they sat blinking in the daylight and looking a bit confused.
The rest were jolly pleased with themselves, for, like Baldrick, they had a cunning plan, which was to defer the big bust-up until a later date. Unfortunately, one or two found this a bit sophisticated and blinked even more.
In the event, the big hoe-down showdown was all over in three minutes, hardly enough time for Newton Wood to get his blood pressure up to fighting level. No, it's all been deferred to a scrutiny meeting in an attempt to avoid the limelight. No matter, it'll be all the better for having to wait a bit. The concept of deferred gratification used to be a trade mark of the middle classes, but it's spread a bit now.
Anyway, back to Baldrick. In an attempt to really get into Baldrick thinking mode, the leading lights thought they'd better do a bit of method acting. You know, where they go into a quiet room, do exercises and actually become the person they're emulating. All very Marlon Brando and Stanislawski.
This is hard, as any keen actor will tell you, but for some of them last Wednesday, it was an absolute breeze. The women councillors quite understandably decided that there wasn't much mileage in ‘being' Baldrick. Some of them were very nicely turned out; bit of make-up, a pretty scarf or two, a nice smile here and there.
But, oh, the men. With a few notable exceptions, they took being Baldrick a bit too far. For a start, they scowl a lot. Whether this is because they're concentrating is hard to tell, because only two or three ever say anything. Perhaps it was because I was there and they didn't like me much. Either way, it would have been hard to describe them as happy little bunnies.
Secondly, what is it about Teesdale which makes the men think that wearing a suit is the work of the devil? The officers trundle around in the same ghastly, shiny-bottomed efforts they've worn since Adam was a lad, but most of the councillors favour knitted cardigans or sports jackets worn so long they have L-shaped arms.
The standard issue trousers are corduroy or M&S ‘slacks' of ample girth. I counted 14 whose shoes hadn't seen any polish in years. Some of the older blokes regard cutting edge style as wearing both a zipped cardigan and a sports jacket. If they have a shirt and vest underneath, it means when they hit the street and put on a coat and scarf, six distinct layers separate them from a nudist existence. It's a wonder they can get through the average doorway. Even if they did, they'd become a hazard to passing traffic.
But most of all, I want to appeal to a public-spirited female member of staff at Galgate to do the world a favour. If there is anyone brave enough, will she please place herself next to the door into the council chamber before any meeting and hold up a sign before certain entering male councillors.
On it should be written in bold type: Have you combed your hair this week?
Last Wednesday was a collective Bad Hair Day. From the officers to the leader of the council, a disregard for hair care abounded. One officer sported a cowlick; another's style was vertical, as if in total surprise. Neither of these, however, could surpass the charm of the council leader. Richard is an intelligent and well-educated man, but will somebody rugby tackle him before his next big speech and scream: ‘Not yet!'
On Wednesday, before leaving his farm, he appeared to have placed a bale of straw from the barn on the top of his head. His barnet stuck out in 80 different directions. Boris Johnson would have bent the knee in submission. One other fellow was doing a passable impersonation of the lead singer of ZZ Top.
The chosen style of Messrs Bell and Salvin is a kind of tidal wave of ever-rising hair layering, making them both look several inches taller. Since they both measure 8ft 6in anyway, this can be quite alarming.
But one man stood apart from this.
I like Ken Robinson. Sorry, Ken, but I do, and I hope this approbation doesn't get you into trouble with the comrades. However, there is something the public has a right to know.
I want to tell you that I have known Ken for a mere 10 years, but in that time, his hair has never varied one millimetre in any direction.
It is set in stone, combed with military precision into exactly the same place every day since he passed the 11-plus. It never moves.
There are two possible explanations. One, it's a rug. Careful examination at close range by myself last week suggests that if this is the case, it's the best rug in the world. No, on reflection, it's not.
So we move to possibility two. That Ken spends a lot of time getting it perfect and commanding it to do as it's told before leaving the house. If this is so, Ken, we all need to know one thing - what does it look like when you wake up?
And the meeting? Dunno, really. The hair was far more interesting.
First published in the Mercury January 30, 2008