Princes Parade: A Financial Dunkirk Of His Own Making!

The air in the Folkestone & Hythe District Council’s chamber was thick—thicker than the Channel’s infamous fog, a suffocating mix of bureaucratic inertia, impending disaster, and the faint aroma of desperation. At the centre of it all sat Councillor Jim Martin (pictured), the accidental politician, a man who had stumbled into the Save Princes Parade campaign like a sleepwalker wandering into a minefield—unintentionally and with immediate regret. What had started as a mission to preserve had spiraled into a financial catastrophe, leaving him mired in a quagmire of his own making, like a man who had tried to build a sandcastle during high tide and ended up drowning in the process.

 

Councillor Tony Hill, a man whose imposing frame could only be compared to a brick outhouse with a PhD in courteous intimidation, brought his palm down on the oak table with a thunderous crack. The sound echoed through the chamber like a cannon blast across a battlefield, or perhaps like the sound of a taxpayer’s wallet being emptied into the void. Hill, not usually one for theatrics, had clearly decided today was the day to channel his inner Churchill—or perhaps his inner Shakespearean tragedian—to make his point impossible to ignore.“Leader!” he bellowed, his voice resonating with the authority of a man who believed he was defending not just righteousness, but democracy itself. “Leader, I implore you—no, I insist—for the sake of this council, for the sake of the residents of Folkestone and Hythe, for the sake of common decency, and dare I say, for the integrity of local governance, show us the legal advice!”

The Leader shifted uneasily in his seat, looking like a man who had just realized he’d accidentally brought a whoopee cushion to a funeral. He had stumbled into politics much like he had stumbled into that nettle bush—accidentally and with immediate regret. Once a champion of the Save Princes Parade campaign, he now found himself drowning in the very project he had vowed to dismantle. It was a cruel twist of fate, or perhaps just the inevitable result of political hubris. Either way, the nettles of his predicament were proving far more persistent than he had anticipated, and the itching was becoming unbearable.

Hill, undeterred by Martin’s discomfort, pressed on, his voice now laced with a sarcasm so sharp it could cut through steel. “We are not children playing at governance, Leader. This is no sandcastle-building contest, where we shrug as the tide washes our efforts away. No, we are custodians of the public trust—guardians accountable for every penny spent, every contract signed, every decision made! And yet, the situation at Princes Parade… it stinks, Leader. It reeks to high heaven, and the stench is impossible to ignore. It’s like a landfill on a hot summer’s day, and we’re all stuck in the middle of it sans gas masks.”

He paused, drawing a deep, theatrical breath, as though summoning the ghost of Churchill to bless his words with gravitas—or maybe just to distract from the sheer absurdity of what he was about to say. “How, I ask you—in the name of all that is sensible, fiscally responsible, and not completely bonkers—did we end up signing a £16,000 contract for legal advice on the disposal of Princes Parade for housing on the  site, a contract that started on 3 August, 2022, ended on the 2 August, 2023, and was officially awarded the same day? A YEAR later! Because according to the downloadable spreadsheet of contracts the Council has, it did. How I ask. How!

In what alternate reality does this make sense? Surely, Award contract, Start contract, End contract – as per the Council’s own Contract Standing Orders. In what twisted dimension of bureaucratic lunacy is Start, End, Award considered acceptable? Can the Corporate Director responsible explain.

Oh, and let’s not forget—because how could we?—The Leader had been in office for four whole months by the time the contract had ended and been awarded. Four months! Plenty of time to stumble across this legal advice, to dispose of Princes Parade for housing. Or maybe not, as he may have been busy mastering the art of selective blindness—a skill that seems to be a prerequisite for leadership and comes with its own procurement card. Bravo, truly. A Masterclass and Mastercard in Monetary responsibility and timely decision-making.

Slow clap builds and fades.

Hill’s gaze swept across the room, his eyes narrowing as they settled on each councillor in turn. “And let us not forget, ladies and gentlemen, the a financial pièce de résistance,” he began, his voice dripping with irony. “Our external auditor, Grant Thornton, has so delicately—and publicly—described Princes Parade as a ‘write down’ of £17.2 million, as the land is no longer classified developmment land, but rather as, ‘amenity land.’ A charming euphemism for what is, in reality, a financial black hole. Amenity land? Is that what we’re calling landfill site’s now? £17.2 million evaporated, for a patch of grass, or rather and expensive landfill site that we’re apparently supposed to admire like it’s the Mona Lisa of municipal mismanagement?”

He paused, letting the weight of his words sink in. “And that’s not all. Let us not overlook the £4.5 million already lost on this venture.

Combined, we’re staring at a staggering £21.7 million being flushed into the Channel. A festering mire of mismanagement, I tell you! It’s like we’ve built a bonfire of taxpayer money and are now roasting marshmallows over the ashes.”

His voice rose, tinged with frustration. “Do you realize what that money could have achieved? It could have built a swimming pool, funded community projects, or served the public in countless ways. Instead, he’s left with a financial Dunkirk of his own making! A disaster so spectacular that future generations will study it in PhDs and write it up as a cautionary tale of how not to run a council.”

Another thunderous slam of his fist. The table groaned in protest, as if it too were tired of the nonsense. “Explain that to me! Explain it to the hardworking people of Folkestone and Hythe! Explain it to the taxpayers—the ones footing the bill for this farce! They deserve to know why their hard-earned money is being treated like confetti at a particularly extravagant wedding.”

The room fell silent, the gravity of his words hanging heavily in the air, like a storm cloud waiting to burst.

Hill turned his accusatory finger toward the Leader, who now looked as though he wished the floor would open up and swallow him whole. “Leader!” he began, his voice dripping with mock-grandeur. “You, who joined this council with the noble mission to stop Princes Parade! You, who stood before us in this very chamber at the Annual General Meeting in May 2023 and declared, with all the conviction of a man who had just won the war, ‘Princes Parade is saved!’

He paused for effect, letting the words hang in the air like the faint smell of regret after a cheap office party. “You, who proclaimed the project halted, the land preserved! And yet, here we are, staring at the losses—stark, unyielding, and as impossible to ignore as a bad hangover after a night of poor decisions. Tell me, Leader, was it all just a performance? A grand soliloquy with no third act? A Shakespearean tragedy where the hero becomes the villain, and the audience is left wondering if they should laugh, cry, or demand a refund?”

The room fell silent, save for the faint sound of Martin wishing he could spontaneously combust.

Hill leaned forward, his voice dropping to a near whisper, thick with sarcasm. “And let us not forget—the site remains in the local plan. A respectable offer of £21 million is on the table, enough to make even Scrooge blush with envy, yet the leader isn’t aware of it” He raised his bulky agenda pack, waved it like a magician revealing his final trick. “What does the legal advice for the disposal of Princes Parade for housing on the site say?

His tone sharpened to a razor’s edge. “If, as you claim, you have no intention of building on it—and I do so love a good claim—then I ask you again, with the utmost urgency: show us the legal advice! Surely the Leader, who once so gallantly fought to save the site, isn’t now minded to dispose of it—oh, but wait, at the right price, of course, definitely maybe. All to ease the financial burden on this council, a burden he so generously helped create.”

His voice rose, each word a hammer strike. “Once more, I insist: show us the legal advice! Or is it, perhaps, too much to ask for a little clarity in this sea of contradictions?”

Hill loomed like a monument to righteous fury, his presence dominating the room. His eyes locked onto Martin, who now looked like a man who’d just realized he’d set his own house on fire and was frantically searching for a bucket of water in a room full of gasoline.

And then, as if the universe itself had decided to add a dash of theatrical flair, a single councillor rose to their feet and began to clap. Slowly. Deliberately. Others joined, one by one, their applause building into a thunderous, mocking crescendo.

But applause wasn’t enough. The crowd, now fully awake and smelling blood in the water, needed more. A chant began, soft at first, then swelling like a tsunami of rebellion:

“Show us the legal advice!”

“Show us the legal advice!”

Years of pent-up frustration.

“Show us the legal advice!”

Suspicion.

“Show us the legal advice!”

All eyes were on The LEADER, the accidental politician who now looked like he’d rather be anywhere else—preferably on a deserted island, far away from the chaos he’d stumbled into.

The message was crystal clear, impossible to ignore, and dripping with sarcastic delight: Show us the legal advice. Now.

The Shepway Vox Team

Dissent is NOT a Crime

This blog post, looks into some outstanding issues of Princes Parade using a a satirical lens to explore the very real legal advice for the disposal of Princes Parade for housing on the site. While the characters and their fates are exaggerated for dramatic and humorous effect, the underlying themes of the legal advice, the £17.2m write down, the £4.5m and £21m offer for the site, are all too real.