oldgrumpy@oldgrumpy.co.uk
During his long-running attempt to cover-up the truth about the inappropriate business relationship between Cllr Brian Hall and Dr Michael Ryan, County Council Leader, Maurice Hughes, has stuck to the line that their company, Euro-Ryall Ltd, has never traded.
I have before me a document obtained from Companies House which is headed: "Euro-Ryall Ltd. Report of the Directors for the period 29 December 2000 to 31 December 2001."
Under "Principal activity" is written: "The principal activity of the company in the period under review was that of provision of project management and management consultancy."
This document is signed off at the bottom of the page "On behalf of the Board: B Hall (Director).
The following page is headed "Profit and loss account for the period 29 December 2000 to 31 December 2001." which shows the company had income from interest, and similar, of £153 and expenditure of £811 leaving a "deficit carried forward" of £658.
Old Grumpy has some difficulty seeing how a non-trading (dormant) company can produce a profit and loss account!
Of course, Euro-Ryall Ltd did not make a profit but, as anyone who has been in business knows, trading at a loss is one of the easier achievements.
Trading, as m'learned friends say, is a term of art.
If you drive your ice-cream van round the streets of Hakin on a a wet Sunday afternoon in January and nobody comes out to pay, are you trading?
Well, you would certainly be looking to set your expenditure on petrol against any profits you may make in July, just as Euro-Ryall could, for tax purposes, offset its losses in 2001 against future income.
The question of whether or not the company traded in Pembrokeshire, in breach of what the county council claims to be a "legally enforceable" contract, is of the greatest of importance, but it is not the only issue.
There is also the matter of the time Cllr Hall and Dr Ryan spent together during the latter's visits to Pembrokeshire.
How much of their time together was devoted to discussing our business, for which Dr Ryan was being paid £450 a day, and how much to their own?
Why they needed to meet at all is something of a mystery because at the material time Cllr Hall was Chairman of the Highways Committee while Dr Ryan was supposed to be promoting a Science Park at the Cleddau Bridge site.
However, Cllr Hall's expense claims show that that they met on the following occasions:
(1) Thursday-Sunday, 16-19 November 2000, Cllr Hall and Dr Ryan spent four days together in Pembroke Dock in the company of a Mr Pat O'Sullivan. The council's Head of Marketing and Communications Dai "Spin" Thomas was present for part of the Friday.
(2) 23 January 2001, Cllr Hall takes Dr Ryan out to lunch at our expense.
(3) 24 January 2001, ditto (2) above
(4) 2 May 2001, Cllr Hall accompanied "Irish developers" to "County Hall, Colledge (sic) and Pembroke Dock"
(5) 12 September 2001, Cllr Hall meets "Irish developers" from the Irish Ferries boat at 2.00am and at 8 am he is driving to Withybush Airfield to meet his business partner, Dr Ryan, off a plane.
And that is probably the tip of the iceberg because, when in Pembrokeshire, Dr Ryan usually bases himself at the Cleddau Bridge Hotel where Cllr Hall can visit without claiming expenses.
I am also told that, during the Autumn of 2000, when their plans to trade in Pembrokeshire were being hatched, they were in almost daily contact by phone.
Precisely what they found to talk about we may never know, but you can bet your life that Dr Ryan wasn't seeking to tap into Hall's expertise on Science Parks and nor was Hall after advice from the Doctor on the best way to tackle potholes in the roads.
If I was a gambling man, I'd put my fiver on them discussing ways to line their own pockets by abusing their positions within the council.
It is three months since I first made these allegations and, as time passes without the arrival of a writ, I am increasingly of the belief that I'm on to a cert.
Near squeak
As Colin Charvis said in the pre-match interview: "We've nothing to lose".
By half-time, with a 10-3 lead and a glorious chapter in Welsh rugby legend about to be written, this had ceased to be true.
England pulled themselves together and the rest, as they say, is history.
After the game my eldest daughter, born in Brentwood, so a true Essex girl, commented: "There was no justice in that - in the end I was hoping Wales would win".
While in my more magnanimous moments I would have no difficulty agreeing with the first bit of this statement, neither wild horses, hot coals, needles in the eyes, thumbscrews or the rack could ever persuade me to countenance the second.
What does a man do when even his children desert him?
My son has, long ago, gone over to the other side, but at least he has an excuse - he was born in Haverfordwest.
My second daughter remains loyal but, with three little Welsh persons growing up in the house, it can't be long before she defects.
As for Old Grumpette, I don't expect much support from her - she's Manx.
During the match I was able to do some original and, I hope, valuable research into the great Nature v Nurture debate that has excited sociologist and psychologists for a century or more.
On Sunday morning, I was detailed to look after baby Sam at my daughter's house.
This was no hardship because their telly is much bigger than ours.
Unfortunately, Sam woke just as the National Anthems were being sung so I had to bring him downstairs and sit him on my knee.
He was fine for the first few minutes, but after Stephen Jones scored the first Welsh try he started to bawl and continued in that vein until the interval.
The way England were playing, or, should I say, the way Wales were playing, I was tempted to join in
He quietened down during the adverts but something Scott Quinnell said during the punditry session set him off all over again.
You can imagine the state of mental turmoil I was in.
Ten-three down and fortunate it wasn't more; a screaming, inconsolable baby: and trying to think of somewhere I could flee where there were no Welshmen with sweaters emblazoned with "Remember Australia 2003"
The Outer Hebrides or Outer Mongolia were the best I could think of but you can never be sure - those Welsh missionaries have been everywhere..
Early in the second half, after England had managed, for the first time in the match, to go more than 30 seconds without dropping the ball, Wilkinson slotted a penalty to make it 10-6, and I whispered in Sam's ear: "It's going to be OK, Jonnie's brought his kicking boots", and he promptly fell asleep. He woke again briefly when Martyn Williams scored, but drifted off with a smile on his face when Iestyn Harries missed the penalty that would have cut the deficit to a single score.
You see, Sam has two English-born parents, and at just six months old he still hasn't had time to absorb the culture of his Welsh birthplace.
At the moment he is mainly the product of Nature i.e. his English genes.
Tragically, all that will change when he sets off for his first St Davids Day in school, proudly wearing the red shirt and clutching a leek.
I could always threaten to cut him out of the will.
The way England played Sam had better get himself in trim. If France repeat their brilliant performance against Ireland he might have to go the full 80 minutes.
Double take
Last week Old Grumpette went to the cinema in Haverfordwest to see "Calendar Girls".
Arriving in Hill Street, she was surprised to see people, mostly men, queuing 30 deep to get into the Palace.
Not being one for falling into line she slipped into the Yeoman for a glass or two of the vin rouge.
Sipping her Chilean merlot she reflected that the British didn't need sex and violence to draw them to the cinema - given wholesome entertainment, they would turn out in force.
With a warm glow from the red wine and the restoration of her faith in human nature, she made her way down the street to the Palace where the queue had all but disappeared.
Immediately in front was a young bloke with his hood up and a mobile phone to his ear.
An unlikely "Calendar Girls" fan, she thought to herself.
As the young man reached the kiosk, Old Grumpette heard the words "Which film?"
"Matrix Revolutions" came the reply.
She hadn't realised it was a two-screen place.
A disillusioned Old Grumpette found there was no shortage of seats where she was going.
There was an item on yesterday's news about a man from Dunbarton who had been caught doing 107 mph on the motorway.
He pleaded guilty, but the Magistrates decided not to disqualify him after he explained that he was speeding because he was desperate to find a lavatory.
There is a very old joke along these lines involving the fearsome Lancashire Constabulary the force on the southern boundary of where I used to live.
We were always warned when we travelled south through Lancashire to drive carefully because, if caught speeding, we couldn't expect the gentle treatment we were used to from the laid-back Cumbrian bobbies.
The story is that a driver was doing 90 on the M6 near Preston when he was stopped by a policeman.
"What's the hurry?" the policeman asked him.
"I was looking for a s---house" the driver replied.
"You've found one", answered the policeman, "what's your name and address".
oldgrumpy@oldgrumpy.co.uk
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