He Told Them, Out Loud, To a Microphone

Andy Burnham is the man who ran Greater Manchester for nine years — which means, among other things, that he was the man at the top of the organisation that pays Stanley’s pension. So Stanley has been paying attention.

This week, somebody asked the man across the water what he made of the lad from Leigh. The answer involved the word “town.” It was not meant as a compliment.

In this episode: a Labour conference in Manchester, a case of mistaken identity involving a former party leader, an old sergeant’s advice about toolboxes, an operation named after a hammer, and a song that was read out loud at hundreds of rallies — by a man who thought he was warning the world about something else entirely.

He told them. Out loud. To a microphone.

Transcript on Substack at stanleycommon.substack.com. Free to read, free to subscribe.

Transcript

SPEAKER_01 0:12

There's a shed at the uh Hello Welcome back to the shed. This week I've been thinking about a lad from Lee, a man across the pond who once told the world exactly what he was, out loud and to a microphone. And a place that someone decided was a town. It isn't. Kettle Tom, sit yourself down. I've had the telly on more than usual this week. Not for the football, but for a lad from Lee, Andy Burnham, Mayor of Greater Manchester the last nine years. By the time you are in this, probably a grander title. The papers think they know what happens next. Me, I'm not too sure. For most of those nine years he was the police and crime commissioner for the force I served in, Greater Manchester Police. In charge of the budget, the chief constable, a lot really. That's the organisation who pays my pension, so I'm sure you'll forgive an old man taking an interest in what he gets up to. I met him once, not properly mind. It was a Labour Party conference in Manchester. Must have been twenty fourteen. I was there with a different hat on, charity ambassador for the anti tobacco lot. We were pushing for plain packaging, wanted the cigarettes in plain packs, stopping them looking like a bag of sweets to attract the children. Burnham was shadow health secretary at the time. He was broadly on our side, gave a speech, came over afterwards, shook everybody's hand, knew what we were on about. I quite liked him. I met a lot of politicians in that role. You can tell who's grasped the issue and who's pretending that they have. But there's one incident from that day that Mrs C still brings up at Christmas. I had a black turtleneck jumper on. Underneath it, peeking out the collar, was a white polo neck. Now Manchester in late September can be a cold place, particularly if you've been stood outside all morning carrying a placard. Layers seemed sensible at the time, less sensible later as it turned out. Neil Kinnox spotted me across the room. A former labour leader mind, came straight over, greeted me as father. Father Took me a minute to catch up. He thought I was a priest. I didn't correct him. Seemed unwise. I wanted him to sign our petition. He was very warm, told me the church had done good work in his valley. Asked after my parish. I made some noises I hoped were broadly Christian. I think I got away with it. Unfortunately, for the next six months I was the butt of a joker on the lads. I was Father Stanley, six months of being asked for absolution every time they broke wind or spilt their beer. So now when I see the lad from Lee on the News lined up for the top job, I'm not coming at it cold. He struck me as a decent man on that day. That's the bit I keep coming back to. But there's a date I keep coming back to as well. January sixth, twenty twenty one. You'll probably remember it. A crowd smashed their way into the American Parliament and had a bit of a wander around. I watched it the way you watch anything of that sort when you've done the job. Not the politics. I've lived through the poll tax riots, the inner city troubles, the industrial unrest. I knew what it looked like to be that thin blue line of lads in the wrong gear, with nowhere near enough of you. My heart went out to them that day. Our Mur put something out. If I recall, it was something like any British politician who'd given that fella across the water the time of day ought to be ashamed. Clear words said to a camera. The camera'll keep them. It'll be out there somewhere. Somebody will find it. You can't unsend it. Ask anybody under thirty. But that was then and this is now. The big fellas over the other side of the pond. The lad from Lee with his publicly stated view of him from january sixth might shortly be the one ringing him. He'll not be the first one stood in the reception line at that showman's latest piece of theatre. You know the type, the lead who arrives with his own version of the scripts, won't follow the one that has been given. Goes wherever it takes him mid performance, and does the rest of the cast to keep up. Absolutely full of himself, and somehow that's the whole act. He can't be directed, he can only be managed. And that's what most of the world's leaders have been doing over this last year. Not being statesmen, just producers. The ones you see at the school nativity, when the child who was only supposed to be a shepherd has decided entirely off his own initiative, to be all three wise men and the angel Gabriel as well. Their whole job has become keeping the alleged leader of the free world happy enough to stay in the building. And we've had a useful look lately at how that goes. Two ways of doing it, near as I can tell. There's the way the outgoing PM did it. You probably saw it. Reached in his jacket in front of the cameras and produced a letter from the king. Second state visit, golden carriages, the best china out, lay it on thick and hopefully the weather holes. It more or less worked, though as a nation, we just cringe through it all. Then there's the Italian way. Clever. She'd be the bridge. The whisperer they called her front row at his big day. Sister nations, you call the two countries, never a hard syllable in public. It went beautifully until last week. When he popped up on the tell and said she'd begged him for a photograph. And after all that effort minding her manners An old sergeant told me something when I was new in the job, forty odd years ago now. He said persuading people is most of the work you'll be doing and for that you've got a toolbox. At one end's a feeler gauge, the thinnest blades you've got lets you test the gaps, find out what you're up against. At the other end you've got a great big hammer. You can start at the feeler gauge and work your way through the toolbox, find the right tool for the job. Most jobs, he said, you never get past the spanners. But if you start with the hammer, you've made the rest of it almost impossible. You can't put the hammock back and pick up the feeler gauge. The gap's gone, even if there was one in the first place. Given the operation against Iran's nuclear sites last summer, the B fifty two bombers, the bunker busters, the biggest conventional weapons and the American arsenal, I doubt you'll find my old sergeant's advice in the art of the deal. Operation Midnight Hammer I'm not making that up. The Straits of Amuz, narrow bit of water on the top of the Gulf, a fifth of the world's oil goes through it. Iran on one side. His own joint chiefs of staff had warned him beforehand, told him to his face Iran might close the straits if you do this. He waved them off, said they'd cave. Four months on the Vice President was in Switzerland, trying to talk back to where they were before they all started. Came away with a sixty day roadmap and a telephone hotline for the straits. The feeler gates was back out of the box. But a bit too late in the day. So I'll grant you something. If you're sat opposite a man who's only ever owned the one tool, I can see why the others have tried to flatter their way through. The letter from the king, the sister nation talk. They're not being clever, they're being practical. You don't poke the man with a big hammer. But Churchill had a line about that, half remembered in my mind. I'm not pretending to be a scholar. Something about an appeaser being a man who feeds the crocodile, hoping the crocodile eats him last. That's not how it works in my recollection of my history lessons. But here's the strangest part of this whole business. Trump warned them. He used to read a song out at his rallies about a kind woman who finds a half frozen snake on the path one cold morning, takes it home, warms it up, nurses it back, and then the snake bites her. And when she says But I saved you, and now I'm gonna die, the snake says You knew damn well I was a snake before you took me in. Hundreds of rallies. He thought he was warning America about immigrants. What he was doing in the plainest language a man can find was telling the world the rules of his second term in his own voice, out loud, and to a microphone. The Italian lady had been bitten. The Ukrainian one had been bitten before. This week somebody asked him about the lad from Lee. Here's what he said. I think I see what he was, I guess. The mayor of a town. A town? The best part of three million people. The capital of the north the place where the mer stood on Albert Square the night after twenty-two people were killed in the arena and kept it together while the rest of us were burly managing. A town he's probably not ready's brief. But then again, I don't suppose he ever does. Kettle's gone cold. Always does when I get going. The stakes said you knew what he was. He was right about that. I'll be watching Mr Burnham. Not with any great expectation. Just an old copper keeping half an eye on somebody he met once, who seemed like a decent bloke. It's Lancashire anyway, said Mrs. C, clearing away the teapot. Always was. Nobody asked us. She's right, you know. Well that's it from the shed this week. If any of that landed, and I hope some of it did, the best thing you can do is to share it. Pass it on to somebody who'd appreciate it. Word of mouth is how a shed like this one gets found. The transcript of this episode is up on Substack View from the Shed. If you'd rather read about it than listen, or you want to go back over it any time, there's a link in the show notes. And if you've not already subscribed here or on Substack, it costs nothing, and it means the next one finds its way to you without having to look for it. It's free to subscribe, free to read, and that's the arrangement. And please do let me know if you've got any comments, criticisms or praise, whichever. I'm new to this game, so all of it will be useful to me. So until next time when the kettle's on.