AS the old man used to say when neither I nor my sister would own up to some minor misdeed, ‘it must have been That Man again’, although quite who That Man was remains a mystery.

I thought of those days – and how much we both got away with because of the absence of proof against one or other of us – when listening on the wireless to that lot in the Big House trying to get through the relatively easy process of electing ministers.

In this minute dot in the globe there is a possibility that, despite all the efforts to exclude time-wasting hangers on by holding all three polls on the same day, not one but possibly as many as four of our electoral districts are now minus an idiot, having elected him or her to the Big House.

What other explanation can there be for three of the four elections producing a total of four spoilt papers? How on earth is it possible for anyone, let alone someone who has managed to convince the electorate that they are worth the nine hundred quid a week they are all entitled to pocket, to cock up writing just one name on a piece of paper?

You really do have to be at least a tanner short of a shilling to screw up to such a degree and in our government we’ve certainty got two of them, with more than a chance that we’ve got no fewer than four. The electronic abacus indicates that four equates to eight per cent of the entire government – eight per cent of our elected representatives are incapable of understanding that in an election for one position you can and must only write one candidate’s name on a ballot paper.

And what, to a perhaps cynical (but with a hell of a lot of justification) old fool like me, is even more frightening is that the number of idiots we are now certain we’ve got governing us could conceivably be just the tip of the iceberg. After all, and assuming that so far we’ve identified four morons out of 50, who can tell how many more will emerge as the life of this legislative assembly progresses?

It’s a frightening thought but when it’s added to the sort of moronic comments made by some of those who have it in their gift to vote for these idiots in the first place, it becomes close to terrifying. Here we have a series of secret ballots taking place to determine which of our elected representatives will hold the ministerial reins for the foreseeable future and, because at least two and possibly four politicians spoil their voting papers, some online commentators (on thisisjersey.com) are demanding to know the identity of the culprits.

Where do you recommend the political police start their investigations, o rocket scientists? Fingerprinting and DNA samples, perhaps? You might just as well say ‘it’s That Man again’.

And so we move, seemingly effortlessly and seamlessly (probably because we so used to it), to yet another facet of daily life in this otherwise close to idyllic corner of the world – the public sector employee gravy train.

To simplify matters so as to give that lot in the Big House a better understanding of the point I seek to make, if Herself and her mate go into de Gruchy’s and, after a swift perusal of the contents of the sale rail, Herself decides to make a purchase, I am soon afterwards made aware of what the purchase was and how much of our money it cost. Much the same can be said of almost all our weekly or monthly expenditure.

I might not like the figure at the bottom when we get the water and electricity bills but I know that we’ve been charged for what we’ve used and no doubt if I was minded to call for an explanation from either company of where the money goes, I’d probably get one.

Between us, Herself and I have paid tax for much longer than either of us cares to remember. Some of that money, it might only have been pennies but no matter, went on former chief executive Bill Ogley’s salary and no doubt – perhaps in a more convoluted way but I’m sure it got there in the end – some of it also found its way into the coffers of the former Waterfront Enterprise Board, now given a makeover to become the States of Jersey Development Company, where £266,540 a year found its way into Stephen Izatt’s bank account.

That, for those like me who have difficulty with big numbers, is £5,125.77(as near as makes no difference) going into a little brown envelope every single Friday lunchtime, rain or shine.

I don’t have a particular issue with that but Mr Izatt, like Mr Ogley before him, decided for whatever reason that he no longer wanted to work for the States of Jersey and so he quit. As far as I’m concerned, get the cheap bubbly out, put bits of cheese on sticks and thank you and goodbye – it’s your decision, pal.

Unfortunately (not for him but for us), and just like Mr Ogley before him, Mr Izatt is somehow entitled to a considerable amount of public money for quitting his job – a situation which somehow the nincompoops who negotiate these things on our behalf managed to write into heaven knows how many employment contracts.

I doubt I’d be far wide of the mark if I suggested that these two golden goodbyes could be around a million quid. I’d normally leave it to fellow taxpayers to determine whether they’ve got value for money but we’re never told what our money is spent on in this respect.

And finally,

Excellent letter from Andrea Rosenfeld on our lousy postal service. No delivery on Mondays makes more sense than no delivery on Saturdays. The trouble is, since when did sense come into the equation after the philatelic cash cow dried up?