It’s my 30th birthday today, and I’m coping with it by writing a self-indulgent blog post in the hope that it’ll make me feel better. Sorry about that. Feel free to not read it if you’d like.

The fact I’m thirty means that I am now older than my father was when I was born, and that I am categorically unable to describe myself as youthful except when with a gaggle of exclusively ancient colleagues. One of my friends got me a “Toy Story 3, Woody the Cowboy Magic 8 Ball” as a present. Ask it any question and it will give you an answer. I asked it if I was still young. It said “Yee Haw Partner! No.”

Luckily I am a Bury Metropolitan Borough Councillor (for the next three weeks at least) and thus find myself in the company of older people fairly often at meetings attended by people who retired when I was in infants school. The other day at the last Scrutiny meeting of the year we thanked a retiring member who has been a Councillor since  eight years before I was born. I feel a bit shame-faced describing my age-angst in his company, especially since he and everyone between him and me don’t seem half as worried about the clock ticking as I do. How are old people not beset with continual, blank-eyed panic about the lack of time left? Maybe they have more important things to worry about… Whatever the reason, I’d be shocked if they don’t feel as I do about the speed time flies at. Surely somebody somewhere must be able to slow it down. The people working that large hadron collider at CERN, for instance. I’m looking to you fellas. Help me out here.

I’m very grateful for the happy birthday wishes I’ve received, but I wonder how people can be so sure that “Happy Birthday!” ends with that exclamation mark. I would be a bit more comfortable if it were “Happy Birthday…?” followed by a carefully listed consideration of the pros and cons of everything involved.  

True, that list might note, on the plus side, as a 30 year old I have a wife and a happy home, I have no need to ask my parents for lifts places, and no problem talking to girls. Worries about all of these things hampered my teenage years. If someone would’ve offered me on my 18^thbirthday what I’ve got on my 30^th, I’d have bitten their arm off with my youthful teeth.

But, the list may continue, on the minus side, the fact that I have that wife means I have to curtail talking to those girls I am now at ease with. I also have to start worrying about people getting ill and old.  And the fact that I can drive myself places means that every day that I drive myself to my good, enjoyable, but fairly mundane job I am not driving myself off into a glorious sunset somewhere having accomplished a life’s work. Is that another wasted day? Could I be doing more for everyone? Another Council meeting and still the problems of Prestwich remain. As time goes on, what more could I be doing?

On top of my worrying, I’m fairly sure my knees ache more than they did yesterday, although that’s probably due to the election campaign and my slave-driving councillor colleagues who will not rest until we have suffered death by 10,000 leaflets. And the news isn’t helping. I am precisely the same age as the NASA Space Shuttle, the maiden flight of which touched down the day I was born. It is disconcerting to note in the papers today that in June this year the final Space Shuttle will be scrapped, deemed too old and surplus to requirements. If something so quite literally space-age can be outmoded at 30, that’s not a good sign.

Did I once blaze a trail somewhere, only to be considered, at thirty, past useful function? Like the Spcae Shuttle, do people worry that every time I get up bits will fall off me, and that I might disintegrate when I try to sit down?

Having said all that, I am still only a day older today than I was yesterday, after all, and there awaits me this evening some kind of celebration befitting someone who feels guilty about not being out canvassing. And, let’s face it, having been born in the late twentieth century in a fairly stable home in a first world country puts me in the top 0.000001% of lucky human beings in the history of time, and I’ve carried on being fairly lucky since. Here’s hoping the luck continues for all of us.

A Bury Labour Councillor friend of mine is also 30 today, so happy birthday to him, and to anyone else who’s celebrating today. Happy birthday!

Rick

Apologies for the lack of recent bloggings. I have been away, and have returned bronzed, rested, and married.

All three of those things were planned. This wasn’t a trip to Vegas gone drunkenly wrong. It was in fact a trip to Aldershot gone romantically right, followed by a honeymoon in the Isles of Scilly.

The wedding was, for me at least, a marvellous day. I can’t speak for my new wife, whose smiles surely masked the horror at having had to legally bind herself to me for life. But as far as I was concerned, it could scarcely have gone any better. The rain held off, I managed to tie my cravat, and my speech took place without any Labour Councillors shouting “shame” as I rose from my seat, which was a novelty.

This is a family blog, so I won’t go into the detail of the wedding night, other than to express mild disappointment at two things I feel I should warn fellow grooms-to-be about. First, I was bitterly sad to find that the bridal suite I was staying in was comfortably the nicest hotel room I will probably ever legally get into, but that because the wedding didn’t finish until 2am and because breakfast meant being out of there by 8.30, I had no time whatsoever to utilise the facilities. There was a bath the size of David Beckham’s swimming pool, and a space age trouser press that looked like it had been designed by Arthur C Clarke. But I couldn’t use either.

Second, the bride’s dress was not as easy to remove as the movies would have us believe. I was expecting a sleek, slithery manoeuvring something akin to the boozy end of an evening enjoyed by James Bond. In fact the contraption was held in place by a compendium of buttons, hooks and loops so complicated that it made the control console of a Saturn V mission look like an Etch-A-Sketch. For someone as cack-handed as me (I couldn’t tie a double knot in my shoelaces until I was 16), getting her out of that was like drinking two quarts of vodka, donning a blindfold and then trying to build a full scale Meccano replica of the Cutty Sark. I am going to go on Dragon’s Den as soon as humanly possible with the world’s first velcro wedding dress. It will be a sure-fire hit.

Still, she escaped it eventually, which sadly brought us a few minutes closer to the end of what was the single most lovely 24 hours of my entire life. It was quite emotional to think that such an ensemble of my nearest and dearest is unlikely to come together again unless I either get insanely rich and can pay for them all to get somewhere, or I die. I don’t begrudge our photographer his outrageous fee any more, because his photos are all we have left.

Apart from the Debenhams gift list, obviously. Oh, and each other.

So after that we went on our honeymoon, to Scilly, a place so jaw-droppingly beautiful that it renders foreign travel utterly needless. Forget environmental arguments or the fact that you can’t stand the French. The best reason I have ever seen never to leave the UK is called the island of St Agnes, and it’s 25 miles off Land’s End.

We didn’t stay on it, although we could see it from St Mary’s, which was a couple of miles away and was where we were staying, in a 17th century former windmill which had been turned into a cottage for romantics too tight fisted to stay in a hotel (like me). It contained four round rooms, one on top of the other. The bedroom was at the very top, and the bathroom was at the very bottom, accessible only by an outside staircase, which sounded cute in the brochure but which is irritating when my bladder goes to sleep an hour after the rest of me, and wakes up three hours before.

For the yachtless, Scilly is accessible only by a ferry, a helicopter, and a tiny aeroplane. On the way out we took the helicopter, which was a new experience and one which I found much preferably to flying. If it didn’t cost a thousand times as much as any other mode of transport (except perhaps the Metrolink), I might helicopter more often. My fear that the rotor and the blades would become detached mid-flight, sending us hurtling into the sea, proved unfounded, although I was slightly perturbed on arrival at the heliport to be informed by the check-in man / mechanic that there would be a delay due to “maintenance issues.” These issues were overcome enough to prevent airborne tragedy, and we arrived.

On the way back we came by plane, a 15 seat affair driven by propellers and called an “Otter.” I am no expert in aeronautical nomenclature, but if I was I don’t think I’d name a tiny plane carrying people from islands across seas after an animal that specialises in diving headfirst into water.

Whilst on the islands there was plenty of walking, eating and relaxing. I was forced at divorce-point to go horse-riding, which was a terrifying affair I don’t wish to repeat in a hurry. My horse was bigger than anything I’ve seen close up since Jurassic Park was on at the IMAX. Getting on it was like trying to mount Ayres Rock. My terror was made all the worse by the 12 year old girl escorting me, who leapt aboard her own horse and proceeded to thoroughly show me up by leading the way as I bumbled along behind hanging on for dear life.

I was told that the day previously, the actor Jude Law had ridden the very same horse. Obviously there’s a rude joke in there about that being the only time in my life I’ll ride something Jude Law’s ridden. But I am above making it.

We met said Mr Law a couple of days later, in a posh hotel we’d sheltered in to escape the cold. He’s the type of man so depressingly handsome that it confirm’s to me that God is the divine equivalent of Jeremy Beadle – chortling away whilst playing nasty tricks on ugly people like me. His staggering beauty almost put an end to the marriage there and then. Thankfully my wife is a stickler for the types of local Lib Dem fundraisers that Hollywood A-list types simply can’t provide.

It’s been a great couple of weeks. I have another two days off work too, to catch up on casework and answer my emails. The bad news is that I have to contemplate the fact that having used up all my leave in one go, I now have no more holidays until Christmas. The good news though is that when they do come round I have a wife to share them with.

Rick

I am being turfed out of house and home this weekend by a flock of hens. My marriage looms, and as has become traditional my bride-to-be needs to tie an “L” plate to herself and parade through the streets of town surrounded by shrieking female accomplices dressed in things pink and frilly.

Thankfully I am not involved, although the whole sorry spectacle does mean me having to leave town and take shelter in one of the many empty premises vacated for the weekend by the hens temporarily living at my house.

There are rumours that I have to endure a “stag” do at some point in the near future. The prospect of drinking myself into oblivion and waking up tied to a lamppost is not appealing. I hope that if I am indeed to be the victim of some kind of pre-wedding exercise in extraordinary rendition, it is less riotous than it might be.

I am spending this weekend in London, attending the Farnborough Air Show tomorrow. For an unapologetic geek like me, the idea of spending a day in the company of both an A380 and a Dreamliner is hugely exciting, not to mention all the military jets we’ll no doubt cut the funding for quite soon.

The wedding is now just two short weeks away. Everything is done. All that remains is to answer the millions of people asking me if everything is done. The answer is that yes, everything is done. Everything, that is, apart from me negotiating a substantial discount on the price now that I’ve found that the venue was recently used by Eamonn Holmes.

All this town-fleeing means that I won’t be around to deliver focuses or answer phone calls or emails from residents this weekend. Handing over the keys to my house to two dozen drunken girls also means that I may have to fling myself at the merciful feet of the Council’s Homelessness team come Monday.

I hope everyone has a nice weekend. I am travelling to London on one of those tilting trains that make me feel seasick. I will emerge into the Euston twilight feeling like I’ve just got off the car ferry.

Rick

A few weeks ago I fell off a wall during what has become known as “The Great Focus Leaflet Delivery Tragedy of 2010.” I was trying to take a shortcut between two houses whilst out delivering Focus, and managed to sprain both my ankles and, worse, my achilles. I couldn’t drive for a while, walked with a limp for a fortnight, and still can’t run or put much pressure on my feet.

All of which has made it much easier for me to pretend that I would’ve been doing a massive pre-wedding fitness regime were it not for my injuries. It’s just the pain that stops me from going for a run, honest.

Sadly my feet aren’t broken enough to have given me the chance to turn down an invitation to compete in the annual Bradley Bowling Competition, which takes place this teatime.

It is a handicap competition, which is handy because my handicap is never having bowled before in my life. So I expect to be duly humiliated in front of the Mayor of Bury during my many defeats against fellow Councillors and officers, most of whom are regular competitors. Of course, as a complete novice there is always the chance that I will discover a hidden talent and actually be a world class bowler smashing all-comers to smithereens. I’ll let you know about that.

The last Council-related sports event I took part in was the ill-fated five-a-s-die football tournament, during which my team lost every match. That was on the same day as my ankle injury. So my form is not good. But in the sedate world of crown green bowls, what could possibly go wrong.

I will report back, hopefully not from my hospital bed, when it’s done.

Rick

I have always been a worrier. When I was a kid I worried myself to tears over ridiculous things like forgetting my PE kit and eating apples with bruises on them. Now I worry about slightly more weighty matters, like how on earth my party manages to exist as one sixth of a Conservative-dominated coalition government whilst still keeping its own identity and giving its members and supporters a reason to continue to exist.

I think we did the right thing in creating the coalition. If the country needed one thing it was strong government and a clear programme for that government. Over 60% of the voters voted for us or the Tories, and much as it would have pleased my softer sensibilities to have coalished (a great word of my own invention) with Labour because I think most of them are in it for better reasons, they clearly lost the election and I was/am opposed to probably as many of their policies as those of the Tories.

The coalition agreement seemed pretty good too. We got loads in there, way more than our one-sixth representation warranted. Civil Liberties, a commitment to ask the people about electoral reform, lots more local devolution, concessions on inheritance tax and the promise to deliver our income tax threshold reforms. All straight out of the manifesto.

The budget was obviously going to be overwhelmingly Tory and eye-wateringly tough. The Tories got far more votes and seats than anyone at the election, and everyone agreed that toughness was needed before the election, so it’s fine that they had the vast majority of it. Labour’s reaction to it, and especially to us, has been mis-targeted and unconstructive in my view. Whilst they are right to oppose some specific cuts and perhaps their timing and scope, their refusal to accept any blame or offer any alternatives is as silly as the more rabid government members’ desire to pin all the blame on Labour and say that there were no alternatives at all.

But what gets me worried is the lack of a constructive Lib Dem alternative voice. Coming in to the election we had a set of policies which I believe would have worked and which millions supported. I campaigned on them and I still believe them. Yes, things have changed since in Greece and Spain, in the world markets and in the currency exchanges. And yes, we’re in coalition now and will vote for a programme that is rightly 5/6ths Tory and 1/6th Lib Dem. But where have our policies gone? How can our leading lights, who so strongly and rightly campaigned for them and against George Osborne 8 weeks ago, now say nothing, not one thing, as a constructive alternative? Nick Clegg, Danny Alexander, Vince Cable etc cannot all have had a complete volte face in two months. I know I haven’t.

If coalition government is the mature way of doing things, then how can that exclude mature and reasoned public debate between the two coalition partners? The coalition agreement is in place and signed, after all. It can’t be right that on the one hand this is an agreement between two different parties, and on the other hand that there is not a hair’s breadth between them now on issues that were bitterly dividing them two months ago. It makes us look silly and gives Labour an open goal which they are consistently hitting.

I’m not saying we should actively call for our policies at the expense of the Conservatives’. There is no democratic mandate for us to do so – we came third in the election and they came first. But there must be a way of voicing an alternative view without rocking us all out of the coalition boat. There must be a way of Lib Dems differentiating themselves from the Tories on things other than the AV referendum.

We should be able to say that we disagree when the Tories propose things which we strongly oppose and have alternatives to. It might be that a particular policy is how 5/6ths of the coalition want to behave. We will vote for it because the country needs strong government which we have made ourselves part of for sensible reasons. But the coalition is made up of one large party and one smaller party, not just one very large party. We as a small party have alternatives which we think are better. They can’t come to pass because not enough people voted for us last time. But next time this is what people will get if they do vote for us.

Surely, if we don’t find a way of saying that, we irsk being seen as the same as the Conservatives, and they the same as us? That’s not the case, and I’m glad that on the AV referendum we will be campaigning on different sides. I think we need to find a way of doing that on other things as well, or else I fear we risk being swallowed up in a horrible Tory mess.

I’m sure such discussions go on in private. I’ve seen them go on at a local level, trying to get just a few Councillors with differing views and big egos to tow a common line. Trying it with hundreds across two parties and with even bigger egos must be incredibly difficult. But I think Nick Clegg is doing too good a job. There has been virtually no dissent at all, which I worry is making us look like poodles. That’s obviously what Labour want people to think.

I know what the worry is about dissent - that it would potentially de-stabalise the coalition and could mark the beginning of its crumbling. But I don’t believe that that has to be true. There is scope for mature debate, there has to be. And there has to be room for dividing lines between parties even in a coalition. Not allowing public dissent risks two things. First, it risks a bottling up of frustrations which will one day burst with damaging consequences. And second, it risks keeping the public under the impression that we are Tories.

We are not Tories, we are Lib Dems, and we need to find a way of saying that.

Rick

My fiancee graduated from the Open University today, and I had the pleasure of going to the graduation ceremony at The Bridgewater Hall. For those who’ve not been there, it’s Manchester’s concert hall and home to a huge organ. My future father-in-law said today, innocently enough, that he’d never seen such a big organ. For someone as easily amused as I am, it takes something quite special to out-do that “Carry On”moment as the highlight of the day, but the efforts of the 500 or so students graduating today just about did it. It was a humbling sight (the graduation, not the huge organ…).

The fiancee had been doing a Masters degree in Education. She was clearly not content with being surrounded by thirty screaming 5 year olds all day as part of her job, and actively sought academic excuses to further her torment. Several years and several thousand pounds later we arrive at today. She did very well, and graduated with distinction. And she kept her smiley face on despite having to wear a thick gown on the hottest day of the year.

The Open University is a marvellous institution, which I always admired but know a lot more about now. It’s now over 40 years old, and in that time has handed out hundreds of thousands of degrees at all levels to students who have studied in their own time and at their own expense. More often that not these students are, like the one I went supporting today, doing a degree on top of their full time jobs, juggling studies, families, jobs and everything else. They have my full admiration.

I am doing a Masters myself at the moment (not at the Open University, but still, it’s something…). But I’m wonderfully supported by my employer, who’s giving me time off and a paying hefty proportion of the fees. I don’t have to cope with the pressures that most of today’s graduates did. So well done to them all. They are an inspiration to us all, and proof that it’s never too late to learn, nor are there any reasons why trying circumstances can’t be overcome.

The rest of the day was spent sorting out my wedding suit, which involved being man-handled by an attractive Moss Bros employee who informed me that I was less fat than I thought. Once that was done I returned home to contemplate the weekend ahead, some of which will be spent leafleting the latest Focus. So if we come down your street, pop out and say hello.

Have good weekends all,

Rick

It’s my birthday today, and the Liberal Democrats have honoured the occasion by publishing our manifesto for a fairer Britain. There could be no better birthday present than millions more people voting for us as a result of it (although The Wire box-set comes a pretty close second), so take a look at it here and see what you think.

I am 29 years old now, which is a fact so startlingly unpleasant that I could scarcely summon the will to get out of bed this morning. My mum asked what I wanted for my birthday and I told her I’d like my youth back. I was 18 about two weeks ago for God’s sake… Stop this train, I want to get off and go home again.

Anyway, enough moping. For some reason the entire nation and its election campaign doesn’t stop just because I’m depressed about time’s unstoppable power, so let’s talk politics, and in particular the manifesto we unveiled today.

We are the only party which will hard-wire fairness back into society. We will put £700 into the pockets of ordinary people by reforming the tax system. We’ll clean up politics and introduce a voting system where every vote counts. We’ll turn round the economy by making investment where it’s needed and being open about cuts. And we’ll help children by investing billions in education. Somewhere near the back we talk about giving people their carefree twenties back as well.

So often I hear two things on the doorstep (aside from the menacing growl of dogs wanting to rip my hand from my arm). The first is that the Lib Dems won’t ever get anywhere near power so there’s no point voting for them. The second is that even if they did, their policies don’t chime with what people want.

I think that now, after expenses and recession and years of spin, both of those things have changed. We’re closer to power than ever, and our policies for fairness and reform really do reflect the needs and wants of lots of people.

The Lib Dems are more popular now than ever before at a corresponding time in an election campaign. At the very least there may be a hung parliament with the Lib Dems very much involved in the next government. At the same time, for a lot of people the choice between Gordon Brown and David Cameron is about as appealing as the choice between a headache and an upset stomach. In 1997 people wanted Tony Blair as much as they were sick of the Tories. I don’t get the same feeling about the public’s appetite for David Cameron. But Vince Cable saw the economic problems coming, and has been putting forward the sensible way out of it ever since.

After expenses, what party other than ours is giving people the option of real and fundamental change? And is there another party out there giving people the big changes to tax that are needed to restore fairness. I don’t think there is. It’s up to you though, so take a look at the manifesto.

Tonight my own election campaign will continue. In between work, birthday cake-eating, and depressive introspection, I am going to an event in Bury tonight arranged by the mental health charity Rethink. Mental health is an issue I am very interested in, and I’m looking forward tonight’s event, which the other candidates will be at as well.

With all the talk about the NHS, it’s interesting to note that schizophrenia costs the NHS more than cancer and heart disease, and that the majority of people in prison have a mental illness and aren’t receiving treatment for it. Mental health often gets forgotten, so I’m glad it’s not being forgotten by the Bury North candidates.

Rick

I always said I’d resist Twitter, because I can’t imagine there’s anyone in the world interested in the minutiae of my life. But it turns out that you can upload “tweets” by just texting them, and since I send lots of texts I may as well have an outlet for ones that really don’t deserve to go to one unlucky person alone.

So I have created myself a twitter account and you can follow each and every thing I do (and choose to tell the world about) on www.twitter.com/richardbaum.

Presently I am like a rubbish cult leader – I have absolutely no followers whatsoever. Maybe you can make history and be the first.

Rick

I suppose politicians had it coming, but I really wish that Karma had a better aim. I think it was aiming for Mr Chaytor, but it’s hit me square in the face.

Courtesy of a cock-up at Her Majesty’s Revenue and Customs (HMRC) and an equally momentous one by the company handling the payroll at work, I have had more than double the normal amount of Income Tax removed from this month’s salary, rendering it virtually worthless and meaning that I am plunged into the type of “heat or eat” dilemma faced by lots of other people. It’s like I’ve been elected an MP and cast in one of those “live for a week on a fiver” documentaries on ITV1 already.

The sorry tale was started by my own honesty, or stupidity, or whichever word comes closest to the describing the good deed I did a couple of months back in informing HMRC that they’d probably been under-taxing me. For reasons which I don’t understand, the fantastically complicated tax system in this country can’t cope with simple complexities like me having two incomes (regular job and significantly smaller Councillor’s allowance). As a result I did a bit of a calculation in my head, and managed to compute my tax liability better than HMRC’s mainframe in the process.

Being the good citizen that I am, I thought I’d better tell them, and having been on hold for twenty minutes and then having spoken to a confused man-child on the other end of the phone who agreed with me, I thought it was all sorted.

Oh, dear readers, how wrong I was.

There was plenty of dawdling, cack-handed administering, and dim-witted dullardness between then and now, including three months of total inaction and one mis-posted letter. The sponge-brained inadequacy culminated yesterday in me opening this month’s pay-check and analysing the bottom line to find that something was amiss. In fact, several hundred things were amiss, each one gold coloured and with The Queen’s head on.

After finding the right HMRC office (no easy task given that it isn’t the one nearest where I live or the one nearest where I work!) I discovered that HMRC had sent a revised tax code to the payroll people. Unfortunately, it only contained some of the necessary information, leaving the payroll people to guess the rest in some sort of high-stakes quiz game where there are no winners and just one tearful and impoverished loser (me). Payroll guessed wrong, meaning that rather than take a little bit of the extra tax off each month until the bill had gone, it was all taken off in one go, leaving me penniless for a month. Thanks guys!

Unfortunately my mortgage, car loan, and utility bills won’t take kindly to not being paid this month, and although David Blaine can go that long without food, I can’t. But despite me explaining this to various people, in tones ranging from calm to Mount Etna, we have reached an impasse where basically they still won’t pay me the money I’ve earned.

HMRC are blaming the payroll people for guessing wrong, and the payroll people are blaming HMRC for making them guess in the first place. I can tell the moronic half-wits in charge of these organisations one thing – Nationwide Building Society, N-Power and Peugeot all want money off me, and they’ll be blaming me.

It’s not all that bad – I have some savings, I don’t have kids to feed, and because of a generous employer (who has a stupid payroll supplier…) I have the time to ring round and chase this up. But for God’s sake, this would be a disaster if I didn’t have those advantages, and it is going to be unpleasant all the same. Most people in this country aren’t as lucky as I am. What would they do? Really, what would they do? 

There seems to be no system whereby in emergency situations, HMRC can with-hold excess payments under PAYE. There should be, so that people aren’t plunged into debt through no fault of their own. Grant an emergency month’s grace to sort things out, and even charge interest if needs be, but don’t just cut people adrift and let them sink. Similarly, there seems no compulsion (or even any will whatsoever) for the payroll people to make good what is obviously an error. Income Tax liability doesn’t just double in a month. They are providing a crucial service, and when they cock up they should have to put it right.

There are worse things than this in the world, sure. But there’s a principle here as well as my particular issue. This can’t be right, and I will have plenty of time to think it over whilst I eat cold baked beans this month, because I won’t have the money to do anything else!

Rick

If this website doesn’t satisfy your craving to read what I write, there is now an alternative source, courtesy of the good people at ALDC (Association of Liberal Democrat Councillors).

They have hired a few “Councillor Columnists,” and I am one of the select band in the first cohort. A bit like the John Glenn of the Councillor world, I like to think.

You can read my first effort here, all about snow and grit.

For some reason the word “remains” is missing from the middle of the eleventh line, rendering one sentence devoid of meaning. But don’t let that put you off.

Rick